


bricklaying

by evocates



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: (Not of any of the named characters), (Without BDSM), Batfamily Feels, Blood and Gore, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Class Differences, Class Issues, Communication Failure, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Dubious Morality, Eventual Happy Ending, Human Trafficking, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Learning to Speak Each Other's Language, M/M, Organized Crime, Panic Attacks, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Rich bastards, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-03-14 16:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 148,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13593723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: “What are your superpowers again?”“I’m rich.”Clark knows that he should be grateful to Bruce for helping Mom get the farm back, for making it possible for Clark Kent,Daily Planetreporter, to exist again. And he is, he really is. In more ways than he can describe.But something grates. A bitter, choking taste.Thing is, he knows that Bruce wants him. Likes him, even. But Clark doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge it. He refuses to even think about it. Refuses to become Bruce’s kept man, Bruce’s whore.Too bad that there’s a rising organised crime syndicate in Metropolis that makes avoidance impossible. Not to mention his usual job as Superman.(An exploration on the very different forms of power that Bruce and Clark hold, and the implications of that on their relationship, with special emphasis on class issues. Or, the aftermath of Steppenwolf: in which the world still needs to be saved, but there is no longer a convenient villain left to punch.Subtitled: “How to (and Why) Save a Life.” Please note the tags and the warnings inside.)Complete.





	1. sketching (the plans)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Superman/Batman fic with less emphasis on the superheroes and more on Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne; middle-class reporter Clark Kent who grew up watching his parents struggle to make ends meet, and upper-class aristocrat Bruce Wayne who adopted two working-class children. It’s still set in the canon DCEU universe – with some modifications and additions that will be warned for – but the superheroics take a backseat to the real-world issues, with emphasis on class, organised crime (specifically prostitution and human trafficking), and what it means for these two people with their specific circumstances to become superheroes.
> 
> In essence, this fic is a pretty in-depth exploration about what it truly means to save the world when there isn’t a villain to defeat. It is _also_ an exploration about the traumas both Bruce and Clark had after _Man of Steel_ and _Dawn of Justice_ , because _Justice League_ conveniently skipped over dealing with both in its desire to be a brighter, nicer film.
> 
> My timeline: The _Justice League_ movie takes place in January 2017; _Dawn of Justice_ in June 2016, seven months before; _Man of Steel_ in January 2015. The fic starts in March 2017. Clark is thirty-six (arrived on Earth in 1981), and Bruce is forty-four (born in 1973). Dates are important because American politics will play a part in the later chapters.
> 
>  **Warnings:** In-depth depiction of organised crime activities and poverty, especially the relationship of both with regards to prostitution; Trump-era politics, especially pertinent to the working class and illegal immigrants; extremely messy morality in which ‘black and white’ is replaced by ‘shades of dirt’; detailed exploration of power brokers and their bigoted mindsets; details of small-town farming history and practices; a burn so slow that the fic is barely sputtering; lots of imported comics characters and OCs; very long chapters. 
> 
> Further warnings will be at the top of each chapter. This is not going to be a pleasant fic, especially in the beginning. **If anything discomfits, triggers, or makes you feel anything you don’t want to when participating in fandom, please press the back button immediately.**
> 
> Beta'd by [kikibug13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikibug13), who is wonderful and puts up with a lot of my harassing her about my writing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark Kent has an interview. Matches Malone receives an award. A team of superheroes plan the building of their headquarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Detailed portrayal of prostitution and human trafficking, both from the perspective of a prostitute (from Clark’s POV), and from the perspective of an organised crime leader (from Bruce’s POV). This includes of dehumanisation, drugging, sexual acts, implications of sexual training, and all of the above are enacted without consent of the receiver.
> 
> Matches Malone is one of Bruce’s aliases, used most frequently when dealing with organised crime members. The scene that involves him also includes dubious consent on _his_ part, in which he doesn’t want to have sex but he has to do it to keep his cover. This scene also includes, very briefly, explicit homophobia.
> 
> This entire fic is about organised crime: my knowledge of it is very extensive, and I don’t pull punches. Please keep your finger on the back button and, more importantly, _keep yourself safe._

When he was five years old, when his hearing started coming in, his parents took Clark to three ear specialists.

He remembered nothing of the visits, or even what the doctors had said. Only Dad’s voice, the night after the third specialist, when he and Mom thought Clark was already asleep: _it’s a good thing that the harvest was good this year and the price of corn is rising_. There was a very soft rustle, like Dad was shaking his head, the strands of his short hair brushing the air. _Though I wish it could’ve been better. We’d be able to save a bit, then_.

 _It’ll be fine,_ Mom had reassured him. There was another susurration, this time of skin on skin; Mom putting a hand on Dad’s. _We’ll survive and make do, like we always have._

She spoke too soon. That autumn, a sudden strong thunderstorm made the barn roof cave in. His parents had to dip into their savings to buy materials, and Dad nearly broke his arm while helping Mom do the repairs. 

(They didn’t ask Clark to help. They knew that there was nothing he could’ve done. Clark was only five, after all.)

Two years later, when Clark was seven, food tasted terrible because he could taste every component in it. Even the sweetness of his favourite Fruit Loops was drowned out by the sticky artificiality of the flavourings. But Clark only asked Mom to not buy Fruit Loops anymore, and threw a few tantrums so they wouldn’t try to take him to another specialist.

That was the year he started lying to his parents. Not telling them some things. Because the harvest was fine, but the price of corn had fallen severely and suddenly, and there was barely enough money to put food on the table, pay for repairs for the old tractor, and buy next year’s seeds. His parents couldn’t afford the hundreds of dollars needed to bring him to see doctors.

Especially when farmers’ insurances didn’t cover visits that couldn’t fix the strangeness of an alien child.

***

When he was nine, Bruce started thinking about travelling. He was already researching learning how to fight, and he knew that the teachers available in Gotham wouldn’t be enough for him.

He was still haunted by nightmares – after a year, he had an inkling that he always would be – and there was a recurrent theme in them that he was starting to notice. The feeling of his body, so terribly heavy, as he stood there and watched the mugger gun down his parents. His frozen body, his weak childish body. His father standing in front of him, shielding him. His mother making a lunge towards him and the mugger’s gun turning towards her.

If he’d been able to fight, then he could’ve saved his parents. He could’ve gotten the gun out of the mugger’s hands. If he’d been able to fight, then his parents wouldn’t have tried their best to protect him with their bodies. 

If he was able to fight, then he wouldn’t be helpless anymore.

Over the next two years, he started planning and preparing; started asking questions here and there. The businessmen whom he knew who had connections in the Middle East and in China; the main combat specialist in the Police Academy; high-ranking members of the Army; anyone and everyone he could get his hands on who might have some idea where he could go to _learn_.

He pinned a world map in his room and started making notes, tracing a potential route. He had Alfred hire him the best teachers who could give him lessons in linguistics – the basic barebones of languages, the phonetics and various forms of grammatical structures – so that he could pick up languages wherever he went without having to learn them beforehand. He couldn’t be sure where he would end up, after all.

Alfred suspected what he was doing; Bruce wasn’t exactly hiding his plans from him. But Alfred never asked.

Four years and three months after his parents’ deaths – that was how he counted time, now – Bruce packed his bags and bought a ticket to Tibet under a false name. Alfred caught him at the door, and pressed a piece of paper to him. A bank account, one linked to various banks in the world and owned by many, many names. 

_Use the money_ , Alfred had urged him. _It will be a sign that you’re still alive, Master Bruce_.

Over the next twelve years as he travelled throughout the world to train, Bruce used the money from the account. Not for his own comforts, he told himself: he was fine with sleeping on the streets, fine with being cold, fine with going hungry, because they were all part of training to toughen up his mind and body. But sometimes, just sometimes, he needed the money to grease some palms, to get information about places he needed to go.

(Sometimes, he would give into the urge to buy a good coat. He would curl up in the warmth, and then when the sun rose again he would shake with rage at himself for his weakness. And he would give that coat to the nearest beggar he saw. 

Needing things like comfort was weakness. He couldn’t afford to be weak. Not anymore.)

***

The plaster was peeling off the corner where the wall met the ceiling, revealing the bare, cracked concrete underneath. The struggling tungsten in the bare lightbulb was a constant, crackling hum in Clark’s ears.

“Sir.” The bathroom door opened.

She would be pretty if not for the gaunt cheeks and pallid skin, the track marks near her elbows that mapped stark blue-black veins. As she walked towards him, he could smell her breath: sour come and old rot. Her eyes had the glaze of an incoming heroin withdrawal. 

Her pimp had said that her name was Brittany. She sat down on the bed and drew her legs up. Her underwear hung loosely on her hips, and the bra was at least a couple of sizes too big for her shoulders, much less her breasts. Her ribs stood out starkly.

“Do you dislike my makeup, sir?” Her English was stilted, halting. She touched the edge of her eyes, nudging the bright green shadow that clashed with her red dress and didn’t hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes. “I can change it for you, if you like?”

 _Romanian_ , Clark decided. From one of the villages near the southern border, maybe. The hints were there: the yellowish tint to her skin that would turn it dusky if she was healthy; the accent to her English that carried too heavy the scent of Southern Europe and its Romance languages to be anything like those further north. Besides, Clark had spent a couple of months in Bucharest; he had seen girls like her on the streets of that capital city.

But not in Metropolis. Not until very recently.

“I like your makeup,” Clark told her in English. When she stopped fiddling with her bra strap to meet his eyes, he continued, “I just wanted to talk to you, actually.” 

His Romanian was very rusty: it had been years since he’d had to use it. But the joy that lit up her dull eyes, the sheer exhilaration that had her throwing her body forward hard enough to make the mattress’s springs creak when she had been half-curled into herself since she sat down… it made him forget his self-consciousness entirely.

“You speak my language!” She lunged for his hands, and Clark let her take them. Her skin was very cold. “Did you come for me, sir? Are you here to take me home?”

He should be used to people looking at him like this; like he was their saviour. But no one had ever stared with eyes so bright with earnestness. With _desperation_. Clark swallowed.

“I, uh, I’m not Romanian,” he managed to say. He hoped that it sounded less cruel than _I’m not here to save you_ , but he doubted it. Swallowing, he continued, “I’m a journalist. I want to ask you a few questions, if you’d let me.”

The light faded from her eyes. She slumped back down on the mattress and turned her head away. Somehow, her disappointment scored as deep a wound as when he’d stood in the middle of that once-courtroom, the only survivor amidst a storm of endless flames.

He didn’t speak. After long moments, she sighed, and reached over to the nightstand. The pack of cigarettes she drew out was crumped, the paper of the box had clearly gotten wet before being hurriedly dried by the heat of a lighter. She pulled a cigarette out and rested it between her lips. 

“You bought this room for the whole night,” she said in English, flat and sounding rehearsed. You can do whatever you want to me.”

Maybe she made a mistake and meant to say _you bought_ me _for the whole night_ instead. Maybe she was being kind, because Clark couldn’t help thinking about buying people without shivering—

( _standing at the doorway of Mom’s farmhouse, watching as the workers carry furniture in. Bruce standing there, hands in his pockets. The wryness tucked deep in the creases beside his eyes._ I bought the bank, _he had said, abashed and yet casual._ It’s like a reflex for me, I don’t know… __  
  
Buy a house, buy a home. What else came with it?)

Clark forced himself back to the present. Pasted a hopefully comforting smile. She took a long drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke right into his face. Clark stifled the flinch that threatened to worm out of his skin. It wasn’t the smoke; the stench was terrible, but he was kind of used to it. It was…

It was such a childish action. And, now that he was looking closer, he realised that she couldn’t be more than seventeen.

“How did you end up here?” Clark asked, voice soft.

She looked at him for a long moment. “How I end up as _curva_?” Her lips curled up, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Clark wrecked her mind for the word she had used, and he bit the inside of his cheek when he realised.

 _Whore_. She called herself a whore. Clark wanted to protest, wanted to tell her that she wasn’t. That, perhaps, she shouldn’t use that word for herself when there were so many others that could be used. _Sex worker_ would be best.

But he swallowed and nodded instead. Any protest he made would be useless, he thought. Because he was here, and she was here, because he had forked out cash for her time. ( _For her body, for her very being, which could be bought and sold._ ) Because any protests of the use of words would be worthless and selfish, for his own comfort, because he couldn’t save her. Because changing a word wouldn’t change her circumstances.

“I was from a village in Oltenia, a few miles from Cralova, the nearest city.” She retrieved an ashtray from the nightstand and flicked her cigarette into it. Her eyes were very far away; Clark suspected that she probably didn’t notice that she had lapsed back into Romanian. “My parents were farmers. I am the oldest in the family. I have a lot of siblings.”

Clark hadn’t expected her to start talking. He had been prepared to visit a few more times, had saved up a bit to be able to buy at least three or four nights, before she would be willing to speak to him. He didn’t want to wonder why she was so willing, and he didn’t have to. He already knew.

It was there, in her eyes, bright enough to cut through the glaze of incoming withdrawal: loneliness thick enough to suffocate. How long had it been since she’d had a conversation? How long had it been since she had been offered the simplest and plainest of intimacies by those she was supposed to open her body to?

He breathed out. He wanted to pretend that this was nothing more than conversation, to put on some facsimile of at least acquaintanceship. But he had to save her, and so he couldn’t waste time.

Slipping his phone out, he pressed the record button. Resignation slid into her eyes when she glanced at it. She huffed out a breath of pale grey smoke, and then shrugged. 

“Our house was old,” she continued. “Times were bad. A man came from the big city. He said that he was looking for girls who could speak English to go teach foreigners in Bucharest how to speak Romanian.” She took another drag from her cigarette. “I could speak English. Learned it from the old books in the library that were left behind years ago.”

The smoke had dried out her lips further, leaving them in danger of cracking. “My father,” her voice didn’t hitch, didn’t even tremble, “he thought it strange, that the man was only looking for young girls. But our roof was leaking, and the man offered an advance big enough to rebuild the house. Make it better.” She gave Clark a brief smile. “Buy new equipment. Better seeds, for crops.”

( _The barn’s roof was always falling apart. The kitchen sink flooded every other month. The tractor ate up twice as much oil as it should because it needed a new engine._  
  
It wasn’t the same. He was being selfish again.)

“You agreed to go?” Clark asked.

“He said that I would make enough money to send home,” she continued. Her teeth ran over her lip. The light lines beneath the lipstick split open. The scent of metal flooded Clark’s nose, but she didn’t even seem to notice. Her shoulders were shaking. “Then he brought me here, and told me I have a debt to repay. Plane flight. Lodgings. Cigarettes. Food.” Her eyes darted down to her arms, to the track marks on her elbows. “Drugs.”

“They gave you the drugs?”

“I wouldn’t stop crying,” she said. “They told me it would make me feel better. Stop me from missing home so much.” The cigarette was almost finished by now, but she took another deep drag of it anyway. So deep that Clark could smell the filter burning, the stench mixing in with the metal. “I should’ve known better than to believe them.”

“It’s not your fault,” Clark blurted out. “It’s not…” He shook his head. “You didn’t have a choice.”

She shook her head. “It’s my fault,” she said. She crushed her cigarette into the ashtray with a violent twist of the wrist. “It’s my _choice_.”

Clark stared at his own hands. They were clenched into fists. Lois had told him that reporters should be objective, but he couldn’t manage that right now. He closed his eyes, breathed out through his teeth.

“ _Why_?”

“Living like this, dying like this.” She picked up her pack, and lit up another cigarette. “For my family to have a nicer house. It’s worth it.” Her eyes flicked up to his, brighter than before even through the haze of the cigarette’s smoke. And he heard, _It has to be_.

Another breath. Clark nodded. “Will you… will you tell me where you used to live? The name of your village?” When she cocked her head to the side, he continued. “So that I can check. To see if your family is really living in a nicer house.”

“You can?” The light threatened at the corners of her eyes. “But you’re not Romanian.”

“I’m a journalist,” Clark said. “We have our sources and ways to find out about things.” And he had more resources than most, he thought to himself. He could fly over there and check out the place himself. 

She didn’t speak for long moments. It was only when her second cigarette was nothing but ash that she gave him the name of the village. Clark took out his notebook, asked her to spell it, and wrote it down. 

Silence fell over the room again. He waited.

“Cernat,” she said eventually. “My family’s name is Cernat.” She rubbed her thumb over her fingertips. “My name is not Brittany.”

“I know,” Clark said, voice very soft. He hadn’t used that name to refer to her for a reason, after all.

“Ramona,” she told him, looking away. “They said it sounds too old, too foreign. Not fitting for _curva_.” 

_It’s a beautiful name_ , he knew he could say. But it wasn’t what she was looking for, he knew. He remembered standing there, half-naked, in the middle of his own memorial; remembered Diana’s whisper of _Kal-El_ that nudged something within him, and then Lois’s voice, calling him _Clark_ , and the world and his life had rushed back into his head. Made him remember who he was.

“Ramona,” he said, putting as much weight to each syllable as he could. When she jerked her head up, he smiled, and said it again. “Ramona Cernat, from Romania.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she bit down on her knuckles. But tears welled in her eyes anyway, and she jerked her head away from him with her shoulders shaking. He kept his hands on the bed, and didn’t reach out. 

She grabbed his hands as the tears spilled over, pressing his knuckles to her face. He moved, then – just an inch forward – and she threw herself on him, nails clawing at her shirt as sobs burst from her chest like she had kept them buried for far too long. Clark closed his eyes, and stroked his hand through her hair.

He wanted to save her. He wanted to bring her away from here, to bring her home; he wanted to make sure that she could stay with her family and never worry about leaking roofs and terrible harvests and parents and siblings left in the cold again.

( _the barn was always falling apart and Mom and Dad had always talked about renovating the whole place but there was never enough money and the couch used to be plaid and covered in patches and with broken springs from where he used to jump on it but now it was leather and shiny and new and didn’t squeak when he sat on it but cradled his body—_ ) __  
  
But he didn’t know how. None of his powers could help with this.

***

“Mannheim’s pulling a copycat trick, and we can’t fall behind him.” The click of the lighter, smoke filling up the car. “This isn’t _only_ a pleasure trip, Malone.”

Roman Sionis was a man with a narrow face, deep-set dark eyes, and black hair slicked back enough to show his widow’s peak. He held the expensive Dunhill cigarettes between his fingertips in imitation of Gotham’s old blue-bloods, but his legs were open and his elbow was pressed against the leather upholstery with the ease of a thug who had made himself rich enough to burn down his own car and not give a damn.

Matches chewed on the end of his matchstick. He kept himself leaning forward, his eyes fixed on a spot just above Sionis’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t think of it, Mister Sionis,” he drawled. “Always figured that you’ve got two or more reasons for doing any one thing.”

Slapping his knee, Sionis threw his head back and laughed. “You’re smart, Malone,” he said, pointing a finger and grinning wide enough to bare teeth. “That’s why I like you.”

 _That’s why you find me useful_ , Matches corrected in his head. He knew better than to say that out loud, however, and just pasted a smile on his lips. “Glad to hear that, Mister Sionis,” he said, careful to keep his chin tipped down so he was looking up to the other man. “Your favour means a lot to me, you know.”

“It keeps you fed with food in your belly instead of bullets,” Sionis said. He flashed that smile again, his teeth very white. Before Matches could think up of a suitable reply, the car slowed to a stop. Sionis turned around. “We’re here,” he announced unnecessarily. “My favourite stable.” Matches knew his cue: he opened the door and stepped aside.

The building was three storeys tall, small enough that there was enough space in the lot left behind for a few straggling plants to grow. The walls were painted a deep burgundy, with the ledges in white. Amidst the greys and silver of the other buildings on this side of uptown Gotham, the building was bright enough to blind. 

“The bitches here are the best,” Sionis continued, coming out of the car to stand beside Matches. “Well-trained. Know better than to whine.” 

Turning, Matches looked at him. Sionis’s car was a Maserati, bright red and clashing with the walls of the building. Sionis’s dark suit and white tie stood out stark against it, and his figure seemed to fit more with the tall condominiums in the backdrop; the wealthy residences lining Yeavely Park whose shadows loomed over the red-light district.

Sionis flicked his cigarette butt to the ground and headed up to the door. It opened just as his foot landed on the first step up. Matches tucked his hands behind his back and followed him, and didn’t allow his eyes to trace the spots on the walls where the paint was thicker by a couple of inches; the spots that marked the police raid a year or so back, when the Bat had finally gained enough evidence to put away the pimps and send the girls home.

But the spots caught his eye nonetheless. In the late afternoon sunlight, they seemed to gleam even brighter. The evidence of rebuilding, of resurrection, like marks of triumph.

Unlike its last iteration, none of the furnishings were red. The floor was covered with hardwood polished to a shine, and the couches were of a dark leather that caught the dim light shining from the glass chandelier. Someone had decorated the place with the girls that were its main attraction: there was seven of them on display, lounging on the arms and backs of the couches while dressed in white button-down blouses, pencil skirts, and stiletto heels, their hair in one sort of up-do or another. Two had glasses perched on their noses, the frames black and square and heavy.

There, the only trace of red: the lipstick, all of the girls wearing a shade reminiscent of blood, contrasting starkly with the paleness of their skin.

Matches closed the door. The girls didn’t move, keeping their heads lowered as Sionis walked amongst them. As Matches watched, he closed his hand around the jaw of the girl perched on the arm of the nearest couch, tipping her head up. When he stroked his hand over her cheek, she obligingly opened his mouth.

“Good teeth,” Sionis said, turning the girl’s face in Matches’s direction. His other hand moved down, unbuttoning the girl’s blouse further and slipping his hand down to curl around a bare breast. “Nice body.” 

His smile was very sharp. “You wouldn’t be ashamed of bringing a girl like this to visit your parents, would you?”

“Won’t know, sir,” Matches said, cocking his head so his sunglasses slipped down his nose enough to meet Sionis’s eyes with his own. “I ain’t got no parents for them to meet.”

Sionis barked a laugh. “We’ve got a new direction. A new market.” He let go of the girl, and her head dropped back down until her chin touched her chest. Her eyes remained open, blank and empty. “Used to be that the rich bastards ‘round here liked thinking that they’re dirtying themselves whenever they came here. They’d get off on it, the thought of surrounding themselves with filth.” 

He walked deeper in the room, approaching the second couch just behind and to the right of the first. The girl leaning on her elbow didn’t flinch as he closed his hand on her ankle, lifting her leg up until her pencil skirt slid up. Matches carefully kept himself still as it became very evident that she hadn’t been allowed any panties either.

“Nowadays, they want the filth,” Sionis continued, “but they want that façade of respectability, too.” He threw a smirk over his shoulder at Malone. “They like to pretend that everyone is as dirty and rotten inside as they are.” 

“They do?” Matches asked, because he knew he should. He raised an eyebrow as Sionis’s fingers crept up the girl’s leg and dipped underneath the skirt, and kept it there as he could see Sionis playing her cunt. “I thought the rich bastards like to pretend they’re better than everyone else.” 

Her teeth shone very brightly as she sank them into her painted lip. Which, Matches noted, could be the appeal. He could appreciate the aesthetics, at least, even as there was a tinge of bile edging at the back of his throat. 

“This is how they pretend, Malone,” Sionis tutted at him. He gripped the girl’s jaw tightly, forcing her to stop biting her lip, even as his hand did something under her skirts to make her eyes go wide. “If they get to believe that everyone’s just as filthy, then _they_ aren’t shitty people themselves. They still get to think that their money makes them better people.”

Here was the reason why Sionis was so dangerous; why he was the one who had risen in the ranks in Gotham’s organised crime since the fall of the Falcone and Maroni twenty years ago; why he had managed to stay there despite all of the efforts of both the Bat and the police: Sionis had an instinctive grasp of people’s wants and needs and how to cater to them, enough to make his services – and therefore himself – indispensable to his clientele.

In that manner, he was the consummate businessman. 

“Choose whichever one that catches your eye, Malone,” Sionis said. “I’m letting you feel like a rich man does for a couple of hours.” 

He pulled his hand out from beneath the girl’s skirts, and smacked her lightly on the jaw. Immediately, she moved away from the couch. When he sank down into the leather and spread her legs, she sank to her knees without even looking at him. 

_Well-trained_ , Sionis had said. 

“Only a couple of hours,” Matches said. He shoved his hands inside his pockets, and looked around the room. None of the girls looked up to meet his eyes; none of them moved at all. “What if I want the rest of the day until tomorrow morning, sir? It ain’t often that I get to feel like a rich bastard.”

Barking another laugh, Sionis drawled, “Don’t push your luck.” A pause, and he slowly tipped his head back. “Pick a bitch and get out of my sight.” His eyes narrowed. The rasp of his zip being lowered by the girl was very loud in the room. “Unless you want to see my cock, Malone? Unless you want to see me come?”

“Like fuck I do,” Matches snapped out immediately, voice full of horror and indignation that wasn’t entirely feigned. His lips curled into disgust as he tore his eyes away from Sionis, scanning the room before his gaze landed on the first girl that Sionis touched. Striding forward, he gripped her by the arm, careful to keep his grip looking tight enough to bruise but gentle enough that it wouldn’t, before he stood. 

Sionis’s laughter followed him out of the room.

Matches had never been here, but another man wearing his face had been, and that man remembered that Sionis’s ‘fucking rooms’ used to be a lot dirtier, with walls of peeling paint, creaking floorboards that seemed to hide rats in its shadows, and yellowed, fraying sheets. But now the sheets were a pristine white, the walls were a soft lavender shade, and there was even a nightstand with a lamp which had a shade painted with some sort of watercolour. 

Closing the door, Matches turned around. The girl stood there, hands folded in front of her. 

“I wanna get off, and I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said. “You got that?”

She nodded. Matches chewed on the stick in his mouth for a moment before he spat it out. The tiny clatter it made on the floor made her flinch. He bit back a sigh. He had chosen her because the others hadn’t been touched, and Matches wanted to reduce the amount of damage that he did as much as possible. But, looking at the minute tremors wreaking her shoulders, he supposed that was too much to ask.

For a moment, he considered not fucking her. But Sionis was the kind of bastard who would check whether Matches had actually made use of his gift, and if he found out that Matches hadn’t fucked the girl he had chosen, he would be insulted enough to throw Matches out of the inner circle that he had just fought to get into.

Besides, it wasn’t the first time when he had had to fuck someone for a reason that had nothing to do with sex. Hell, it wasn’t even _Matches’s_ first time. 

Didn’t make him feel less like a goddamned bastard. Didn’t make it better that shit like this still happened in Gotham even after twenty years. He ran a hand through his hair.

“You got a name?”

Slowly, she lifted her eyes. She met his through the sunglasses for the briefest of moments before looking at the floor again. “You can call me whatever you like, sir.”

“I wanna call you by your _name_ ,” Matches said. He didn’t want to fuck her like she was some kind of doll or toy, and he could still pass that over as some kind of eccentricity. “C’mon, I know your parents gave you one.”

Her chin pressed against her chest. “Ileana,” she said, barely more than a whisper.

Matches plucked his matchbox from his pocket, and shoved another stick between his teeth. “You from Russia?” he asked, keeping his voice idle.

“No,” she shook her head. When he didn’t reply, her knuckles went white. “Romania,” she said finally.

When the man with the same face as Matches but a different name had come to this place, the girls had been from Ukraine. It didn’t surprise Matches that Sionis had found another supplier, this time further south in Eastern Europe; the Ukrainian human trafficking ring had been dismantled just over a year ago, but there certainly wasn’t a lack of them in the world.

“They call you something else here?”

“Yes,” she said. “Bella.”

Ileana, the name of a Romanian princess who was kidnapped and then rescued by a heroic knight, turned into Bella, the name of a Disney princess who was born a commoner and rescued by a beast who turned into a prince. Matches didn’t wonder if the irony was deliberate, because Matches didn’t think about that kind of shit, and wouldn’t even know the Ileana reference anyway.

“Bella’s easier,” he said, because he noticed her discomfort when giving her birth name, and this was all of the kindness he could give in these circumstances. He chewed on his matchstick. “Take off your clothes and lie on the bed, Bella.”

She turned away from him and sat on the bed. She started to unbutton her blouse. Her eyes were very blank, very empty. Matches had heard rumours that Sionis was pumping the girls full of drugs to keep them docile, but there was too much care in her every motion to speak of drugs. Or it might be some new variant; Sionis started off in legitimate pharmaceuticals before he realised that organised crime was far more profitable and fitting for him, after all, and he still had scientists on his payroll.

Matches kept his mind on that as he found the condom and climbed on the bed. He kept his clothes on, too, barely unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants to get his cock out. He didn’t look at her, but she wasn’t looking at him either, her eyes turned to the wall. Her gasps and moans were very loud and very practiced.

Sionis had said that the girls were supposed to help the rich bastards feel like the world was as filthy as they were. Matches supposed he was right – he would know best – but he couldn’t feel it. The only filth he could feel was that sticking to his skin.

There were tiny pinpricks on her elbows, surrounded by yellow-green bruises. Matches stared at the wall so he didn’t have to look at them. 

He had to do this. Had to figure out the roots of Sionis’s new operations so he could rip it all out. Sionis wouldn’t be gotten rid of, and it would maybe take a year maximum before he found new contacts and start everything up again with another new face, another new focus. And the scars on the girls’ minds and bodies would still be there, and perhaps it would take decades before they faded, if they ever did. Maybe they wouldn’t even be able to go home to Romania and look their families in the eye again. 

But it had to be done. It was all part of a cycle, and he had a role to play to move it forward, to get the situation into something that could be deemed as acceptable before it crashed and burned again. 

There was no breaking the cycle. Even when the Bat had gotten rid of Maroni and Falcone, Sionis had appeared to take their place. There was no way to resolve this that was neat and pat, that could tie up all loose strings. 

( _Criminals are like weeds, Alfred: pull one up, another grows in its place._ )

A role to play.

***

Bruce’s Cave was concrete and grey and glass, all of the modern architecture absent from Gotham crammed into a single space. The only deviation from the general design was the large roundtable set as a centrepiece of the main workspace, the polished wood gleaming underneath the stark white fluorescent lights. Surrounded by chairs with dull grey legs and matte black covers, the table stuck out like a sore thumb.

Clark was a writer; he understood symbolism perfectly well. Bruce might have allowed the team to use his Cave as temporary meeting space until the real location had finished construction, but the Cave was _Bruce’s_ space, Batman’s space. The team didn’t belong here; not really.

They should have their headquarters already; Steppenwolf was two months ago, after all, and that should have been plenty of time for them to at least start constructing a building, or even finding a suitable place. But there had been so much going on – Clark Kent coming back to life, Batman dealing with the aftermath of parademons and Steppenwolf in Gotham, the rest of the team making their solo public debuts and figuring out their places in the world – that there just hadn’t been time for them to _meet_.

Besides, they were a team formed to get rid of extra-dimensional threats to the world. They weren’t _friends_. 

Clark ran his hand over the wood of the roundtable. The varnish was smooth on the top, but the bottom was raw wood, sanded over but with splinters forming right at the middle of the table, at the joining where the two semicircle pieces had been stapled together. 

“Metropolis is the best choice,” Bruce was saying. He stood opposite Clark, one hand pointing at the screen behind him that showed eastern America and the Atlantic, with the United Kingdoms and Western Europe edging at the corner. “It’s close enough to the ocean,” paper crinkled as he moved his finger, and his eyes slid towards Arthur, standing to his right. “A short distance from Keystone City,” west of Metropolis, and a nod to Barry, standing to Bruce’s left. “And just across the Bay from Gotham,” his finger crossed the strip of blue of the map as he looked at Victor, standing next to Barry.

After a moment, he straightened. “You’re across the entire Atlantic, Diana,” he brushed his hand over Paris on the map, “so anywhere that’s convenient for us won’t be for you.”

“I can get a transfer from the Louvre to the Smithsonian or the Metropolis Art Museum,” Diana said from Clark’s right, a small smile curving up her lips. “Either way, things will be fine.”

Arthur crossed his arms, leaning a hip against the table. There were chairs but no one ever seemed to use them. “I still say that the best place is the Atlantic itself,” he said. “It’s not as if Poisedonis isn’t right there.”

“And I still say that there’s no way that’s going to happen,” Bruce shot back at him, voice flat. “We’re not going to have our headquarters underwater. There’s no way we can even talk there.”

“Okay, so, maybe I imagined it,” Barry spoke up, interrupting Arthur before he could protest further. “But I thought you said that our headquarters were going to be in Gotham.” He flapped his hand in the air. “Wayne Manor? After it’s rebuilt?”

“You weren’t imagining it,” Diana murmured, flashing Barry a small smile.

“It’s not a good idea,” Bruce said. Voice flat. He turned away from them and tapped a few keys. The map on the screen changed, zooming straight into the suburbs of western Metropolis. A red spot started blinking. “Here’s where I found a plot of land that we can use. I’ve made arrangements to buy it in a way that won’t be easily traced back to any of us. I’ll draw up the schematics and show the rest of you the next meeting, then we can get started on building it ourselves.”

Victor cocked his head to the side. “We can call a construction company,” he pointed out.

“We can,” Bruce acknowledged. “But a building that fits all of our needs, and the potential needs of others we might ask to join in the future, will have a lot of specifications.” He paused. “Even if we use multiple shell companies to hire people to construct the place, it’ll leave a paper trail. Even if we go public with the location of the headquarters, it’s too much of a security risk for the insides of the building to be publicly known.” 

“What I don’t get,” Clark said, and forced down a wince when Victor and Barry both immediately clicked their mouths back shut at the sound of his voice, “is why _you’re_ the one buying the lot, Bruce. There’s going to be a paper trail that leads straight to _you_ , anyway.”

That wasn’t his major problem with Bruce’s plan. But it was the most reasonable-sounding.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bruce said. He wasn’t looking at Clark, his eyes fixed on the blinking red dot on the screen. “Bruce Wayne can announce himself as a financial contributor for the team if it’s ever found out that he owns the land that they’re using for headquarters.”

It shouldn’t be so easy to get used to Bruce talking about himself in third person. Clark stifled the shiver of discomfort. He ran his fingers over where one of the staples had sank into the raw wood again. “I suppose that’s your reasoning for buying all of the materials needed for construction, then?” he asked. 

“My only superpower is that I’m rich,” Bruce said. Before Clark could protest, he rolled his shoulders in a way that was too tense to be a shrug. “Besides, the rest of you will be contributing to the construction of the place. This is my part to play.”

 _That’s not true_ , Clark wanted to protest. Bruce was drawing up the plans, after all. More importantly, the headquarters and the team were both his idea in the first place, and neither would exist without his efforts. 

Clark kept his mouth shut. Not only because he knew that protests would be futile, but also because that wasn’t the reason why he was so uncomfortable with Bruce paying for both the building of the headquarters and the space it was going to be in. Maybe it was because Bruce refused to look him in the eye. Even right now, as he was waiting for Clark to speak, Bruce was staring at the spot just left of his face, above his shoulder.

But he didn’t think that was it, either.

Bruce was the one with the most monetary resources out of all of them, he told himself. It made sense for him to be the one paying. Even if all of them combined their salaries with the gold that Arthur could potentially retrieve from shipwrecks at the bottom of the sea, they wouldn’t be able to cough up the money that Bruce easily had at his disposal. It was reasonable for Bruce to pay;it was _logical._

Besides, it was just the headquarters. A matter of necessity. It didn’t have to mean anything. Clark was just overthinking it.

He took a deep breath. Pasted on a smile. Tried to not think about how they were all in Bruce’s Cave right now, right in his home, because no one else had a location that would fit until the headquarters was finished. “No more objections,” he said.

Nodding, Bruce turned away. He stepped away from the head of the table, and Diana took his place. 

Clark stared at his hands. It didn’t have to mean anything, he told himself again. It _didn’t_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is [the map of Gotham](https://imgur.com/a/Z53Ze) that I’m using.
> 
> Things don’t get less uncomfortable from here. All I can reassure is that I know what I’m talking about. I’m not going to misrepresent anything, and I don’t ever write throwaway characters, but those are exactly the reasons why this fic is discomfiting and disturbing.
> 
> Again, **if anything discomfits, triggers, or makes you feel anything you don’t want to when participating in fandom, please press the back button immediately.**


	2. baking (the bricks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman tries to rescue people. Bruce Wayne has a board meeting. Building of the headquarters begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** In the first scene: depiction of the aftermath of a suicide bombing (the [March 2017 Damascus bombings](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/mar/15/damascus-suicide-bombing-dozens-killed-syria-reports-say)) with its associated violence, gore and horror. In the second scene: rich people being self-righteous bastards regarding charity.

People were screaming. The air was thick with smoke and iron and burnt flesh. There was a particular scent given off when a human being’s insides – their stomachs and intestines and livers and lungs and heart – were scorched to nothingness, impossible to describe, and it was heavy on the tongue.

Clark wanted to be human, wanted to behave like one. But if he kept breathing in, he would retch and never stop and be completely useless. So, he stopped breathing. He stopped seeing like a human, too, piercing through the smoke with his x-ray vision to look for bones and beating hearts.

( _You’re not brave. Men are brave._ )

He found twelve, and whisked them out of the burnt husk of what used to be a courthouse. Outside, ambulance sirens and human voices wailed in tandem, the cacophony nothing more than shrieks that could barely be peeled apart. Clark cut off voices in search of heartbeats, sifting away noise in a way that a human could never manage. He found more survivors and pulled them outside. He threw his invulnerable body over one particular shape, breaking a falling pillar with his own spine, before he realised that the woman was already dead. He got her corpse out anyway.

Slowly, he got more of the corpses out. He tried to not notice how many of them were in pieces. He shut off the sensation of sticky blood on his skin, on his uniform, everywhere around him. He shut off his hearing further so the crunch of broken bones and the squelch of spilled guts and drying blood didn’t worm through his skin and drag the scream out of him. He cleaned out the building as much as he could. Then he stepped outside.

Whispered prayers in the wind. Every piece of cloth of worn by those around him was soaked in blood, in gore. There was a paramedic who was desperately trying to hold closed the gaping wound of someone whose side had been torn out by shrapnel.

Clark’s eyes flicked downwards. He was standing in a slowly-growing pool of blood. Kryptonian cloth rejected the touch of all earthly materials and would never get dirty. Red clung only to his skin, his face.

He turned away to scan the ruined Palace of Justice one last time. Then he heard it: the sound of the bomb going off to the west. The sounds of screams. The stench of burning flesh overlaid with each other, some brought by the wind and others surrounding him. A part of him realised that he wasn’t the only one left frozen; some of the paramedics were now standing still, their hands hovering above their patients, eyes wide as they turned slowly to the west.

One man shrieked, the sound high and horrible. His nails scraped against asphalt as he clawed at the ground. 

For the briefest of moments, his mind brought up images of another courthouse. Flames licking at his invulnerable skin, not even touching his uniform, while the stench of scorched flesh and boiled blood surrounded him.

_Focus_.

Clark lifted off the ground, and headed west. He didn’t look to see if he was leaving trails of blood behind. 

He already knew that he was. He always did. 

*

“Good job yesterday.” Lois’s heels made a dull clacking sound against the rooftop’s concrete surface as she headed towards him. “Though it grates that we still have to get our material from the Associate Press.”

Paper crinkled as she sat down beside him, the warmth of her body familiar and welcoming. She didn’t touch him. She didn’t ask if he was alright. She didn’t say anything, just sat there, waiting.

Clark knew he should say something. But he found no words in his throat. He could only keep staring down. From the rooftop down to the ground was seventy storeys; if he fell, the concrete would crack, not his body. He tried to not think about the differences in sight and stench between an exploded, burnt corpse and an exploded, fallen one.

Staring at his own knees wasn’t going to help with that. Clark tried to look at something, _anything_ , and his gaze landed on the morning’s edition of the _Planet_. A picture of him walking out of a building on fire. He shivered at the phantom sensation of the licks of flames on him; felt bile rise in his throat because there were so many who had died, so many, but the headline blared _Superman Saves Victims of Damascus Terrorist Attack_.

It wasn’t fair. The dead and wounded didn’t deserve to be relinquished to merely the subline. That was his fault, he knew; ever since his death and resurrection, the news outlets had taken to naming Superman in their headlines. _It sells papers_ , Perry had barked when Clark tried to protest. _People don’t want to hear about only tragedies nowadays. They want to believe there is some kind of hope_.

But what hope could he give when there were still so many dead? When he couldn’t save all of them? How much hope could he inspire when he was sitting here, staring at this headline, and selfishly thinking only about his own grief and helplessness instead of ensuring that those who survived and those who were left behind weren’t drowning in their sorrows? 

Pulling his glasses off, Clark rubbed at his eyes. He didn’t need to breathe, he reminded himself. But his throat was seizing up and he felt like he was going to hyperventilate at any moment anyway. He swallowed. Dragged in air. He mustn’t keep Lois waiting for too long.

“You know,” he started. His voice cracked. He swallowed, and turned his eyes to the sky. “You know, Smallville is full of Christians. Full of kids, too, and kids nearly always question. They keep asking, if God exists, why is it that bad things still happen in the world? If God is all-powerful and all-loving like the church teaches, then why is the world still full of horror and misery?”

Lois made a noise at the back of her throat, a sign that she was listening. Clark rubbed at his eyes again, but the images just wouldn’t go away. 

“The answer was always free will. Bad things happen because humans have the ability to choose.” Thinking about this was a mistake, because now he was thinking about Luthor. About what he said: _if God is all powerful, he cannot be all good. And if he’s all good, then he cannot be all powerful._ “God gave humanity free will, and it is up to humans to do with it as they will.”

“You’re not God, Clark,” Lois said, voice soft.

“I know,” Clark said. And he did. He was reminded of that every single day. He might have come back from the dead, might have websites comparing him to Jesus, might have people looking at him like he was God coming down on high to save them… but he wasn’t God.

“But… Lois, what’s the point of that?” He jerked his head towards the paper in her hands – today’s edition of the _Planet_ , the front page detailing Superman’s aiding in the rescue of the victims of Damascus. “What’s the point when I can’t stop people from being horrible in the first place?”

Barry had told him that the parademons and Steppenwolf had attacked because the world had been left without hope after Superman’s death. When Clark had caught himself up with the happenings of the world in the seven months he had been gone, the _Planet’s_ headline had stuck with him: _World Without Hope_. If he was here, if he was alive again, then people should still hope. People should…

He ground the palms of his hands into his eyes. But he could still smell the burnt flesh, the heavy iron of spilled blood. The thick indescribable stench of insides exploded outwards. 

“All I am right now is an ambulance at the bottom of the cliff,” he whispered. “And what’s the point of the ambulance when they’re already dead by the time they reach the bottom?”

“You’re not at the bottom of the cliff,” Lois said. When Clark lifted his head, she was looking at him with a crooked smile. “You’re at the middle, Clark. At the halfway point, ready to snatch them up before they reach the ground.”

He blinked. She reached out, and her fingers brushed over the curve of his cheek before ghosting light over his hairline. The barest trace of warmth that sank into the parts of his nerves that had already carved out pathways for her heat.

“Maybe it doesn’t seem like it’s enough,” Lois continued. “Maybe you can’t stop them from getting hurt in the first place. But there’s no way that you can do that, Clark. You can’t stop people from hurting themselves, hurting each other. Not even if you take over the world and enforce your rule upon all of us.”

It was a joke, Clark knew; he could see it there, in the lopsided quirk of her lips. Like it was a ridiculous idea for Clark Kent to try to become a conqueror. But it didn’t stop the shiver from running down his spine anyway; didn’t stop the mental image of himself, floating above an army, telling them to stop and all of them _listening_. It didn’t stop the rush of his blood in his veins when he imagined what it would feel like to never listen to the sounds of people being hurt.

Something must have shown in his face, because Lois’s smile faded. She reached out, fingertips brushing over his face, curving over his cheekbones. “You _can’t_ stop people from hurting themselves and each other,” she repeated, voice firmer now. “That’s just…” 

She shrugged, the motion helpless. “That’s what people _do_.”

With effort, Clark pushed the thoughts away. Pushed the sounds of shouts and shrieks and screams at the edge of his hearing away. He focused instead on Lois. 

“Hurt each other?” he rasped out. “All the time?”

Lois let out a breath, heart-warm air brushing over his cheek. She leaned in and he obliged her, touching their foreheads together as one hand shifted to curl over the nape of his neck. “Do you know why I wanted to be a journalist, Clark?”

“Because you love the truth,” Clark repeated what she had told him before. “Because you want to find it out, and tell it to people.”

“Mm,” Lois nodded. Her thumb drew circles over his skin. “But, Clark, truth is relative. What is considered to be truth by some is a lie to others, and vice versa. There are facts, and those are objective, but…” Her shoulders shook. “How people view those facts distorts them, and you can’t ever get to those facts without the lenses of at least one person’s perspective.”

( _The_ DailyPlanet _criticizing those who think they’re above the law is a little hypocritical, wouldn’t you say?_ )

Clark shuddered. He remembered all those editorials, all those talk shows, asking for him to be arrested, to be chased out of the Earth, out of the only home he knew. He had read the websites out there that twisted everything he said, whether to make him sound like God or the Devil. The same words, all changed…

“That’s why people hurt each other,” Lois continued. “They believe that they’re right, and they have never heard any other opinion about the same thing, never found anything that could’ve proven them wrong. And that’s not something you can help with, Clark. That’s not something you can change.”   
_  
It’s my fault_ , Ramona had said. The twist of her wrist as she ground the cigarette against the ashtray, a sudden jab of violence, a sudden stab at control. _It’s my choice_.

He could’ve told her that it wasn’t. Made her believe like he did. Maybe he could’ve done the same to those suicide bombers; maybe he could’ve found out the organisation and forced them to stop through threats of his power. But…

_It’s my fault. It’s my choice_. The pastors had always talked about human free will. Dad standing in the middle of the tornado, telling Clark to not interfere, because it was his choice to die. The need for control.

Pulling away from Lois, Clark rubbed his eyes again. “An ambulance at the middle of the cliff,” he whispered. “That still doesn’t seem to be enough.”

She didn’t speak for long moments. It wasn’t that she was frustrated with him, Clark knew; Lois’s silences felt different, weighed differently in the air, when she was frustrated. This was just her thinking.

“I don’t think that I can help you with this,” she said. Then, before he could protest – if Lois couldn’t, then who could? – she placed a finger on his lips. “I think… you have to talk to Bruce about it.”

Clark blinked. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Bruce? Why Bruce?”

“Sightings of the Bat go back for twenty years, yet there is still crime in Gotham,” Lois said, voice very soft. “He can give you an idea about how… how to keep going. The reasons to keep going. Even if it seems like nothing has changed.”

Twenty years. Clark sucked air in through his teeth, feeling the chill of it settle into his lungs. He tried to not remember what it was that Bruce had said. ( _You’re not brave. Men are brave._ ) ( _It’s like a reflex for me._ ) Tried to not remember what it was that Barry had told him, that it was Bruce who had insisted on bringing Clark back. ( _You won’t let me live. You won’t let me die_.) Tried to not remember Bruce’s presence close to him, but Bruce never meeting his eyes. (Metropolis. Clark’s city. But in the discussions, he never once mentioned Clark, never addressed the convenience of having the headquarters in _his_ city of residence.)

Clark swallowed. He stared up to the sky again. Smoke encroached at the edge of his vision. Explosions. Bullets hitting the ground. Aerosolised Kryptonite turning his vision green. Gotham’s evening mist. Everything blending together into a complex web with threads that spilled out of his hands and threatened to bury him with their ephemeral solidity.

“I never wanted it to be so complicated,” Clark said. “I just wanted to save people.”

Lois gave him that crooked smile again. She picked up today’s edition of the _Planet_ lying on the floor and folded it, tucking it underneath her arm. “That’s complicated already,” she told him. “Because you have to consider how you can save them, how they want to be saved…” She paused, and her smile gentled at the corners. “You know that already.”

Yeah. Yeah, he did. He saved the world from Zod, but destroyed Metropolis’s financial district and failed to save over a thousand people in the process. Perhaps, in terms of numbers, over a thousand for billions of the planet was a fair trade.

But it had never been about numbers. It couldn’t be.

“Talk to Bruce,” Lois said again. “At the very least, it’ll be a new perspective.”

Clark picked up his glasses. He looked at them for a moment before cleaning the lenses on the hem of his shirt. He tried to imagine what the conversation with Bruce would end up like, but could get nothing further than standing opposite the man and staring at him, his throat closed.

But. He sighed. “I’ll try,” he said.

He had a feeling that he might have to _keep_ trying to even start a conversation.

***

The Wayne Foundation building was a tall monstrosity of blue glass that shimmered in the dull sunlight that managed to escape the overcast skies. More than eighty storeys tall, it towered over the other buildings in the central financial district of uptown Gotham, matched only by Wayne Tower to its right and to which it was connected to by three covered glass bridges. 

A shining beacon, Bruce had been told. A symbol of hope. But Bruce sat at the head of the table in the conference room at the top floor, staring down at the rest of the city, and thought it was a symbol of something else entirely. Something that made him stifle the urge to sneer; an urge that was made stronger when he turned back to the Foundation’s board, all of them dressed in tailored clothes made of imported materials, all of which cost more than the whole of the East End put together.

Not that he was much better, himself.

“One last piece of business,” he announced, skimming his fingers over the agenda shown on the screen of his tablet even when he had memorised it hours earlier. “An issue with the cheques the Foundation is handing out, Mister Boyle?”

Ferris Boyle, the founder and CEO of Gothcorp, specialising in ‘security solutions,’ folded his hands in front of him. His dark eyes narrowed on Bruce. “My limousine had to pass through the East End a week ago,” he said. There was a subtle curl to his lips, like an invitation to sympathise with his suffering of having to filthy the wheels of his car with East End’s streets. “And I noticed something that disturbed me greatly.”

“Oh?” Bruce kept his voice neutral, lilting slightly at the end with curiosity.

“There are many people on the streets carrying _smartphones_ ,” Boyle said. His eyebrows raised, sweeping down the table. “I thought that the decision to switch from offering coupons to cheques was predicated on the belief that the _beneficiaries_ ,” he made the word sound dirty with the coil of his tongue, the narrowing of his eyes, “would use the cash wisely.” He cocked his head. “ _Satisfactorily_.”

“Smartphones,” Bruce repeated. He placed the tablet back carefully down on the table, but the metal back still clanged loudly against the glass top. He nudged at the corner to stop it from spinning before lifting his eyes. “Is that a reason for your dissatisfaction, Mister Boyle?” 

“It is,” Boyle said, and his tone implied that Bruce was an idiot for not immediately seeing his point. He leaned back against his chair, and his frown was full of justified concern. “The cheques are meant for them to buy food and pay rent and,” he waved a hand, “other such necessities. Smartphones are not _necessities_.”

“We don’t have a stipulation that we have to approve of the purchases the beneficiaries make with their money,” Bruce pointed out, keeping his face fixed in an expression of mild curiosity. “I think we changed our policy from giving out coupons to giving out cheques because the people should know their own needs far better than we would.” He waggled his fingers in the air. “They _do_ live in their own lives far more than we do, after all.”

Not that it was _that_ easy. Bruce had started trying to change the policies when he had adopted Jason, since Jason had given him a thousand precious things in exchange for the tires he had tried to steal. That had been more than ten years ago, and he only managed to succeed in pushing through a barely-there agreement from the board three years ago, four years after Jason’s death.

Wayne Foundation board meetings always made him think of Jason. Bruce resisted the urge to close his eyes. He slipped his hands under the table so he could clench them.

Boyle’s mouth was open, surely about to protest with something else that was idiotic, but another man leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Gentlemen,” Simon Stagg said, his voice soft but carrying throughout the room. “Both of you have a point, and I would like to suggest a compromise.” When Boyle nodded, and Bruce turned his attention towards him, Stagg continued, “How about we require our beneficiaries list down their purchases made with the cash they were given per month, and set up a board to ensure that the lists meet our,” he hesitated, and then nodded towards Boyle, “satisfaction?” 

“No,” Bruce said flatly.

“Mister Wayne,” Stagg started, but Bruce cut him off with a sweep of his hand through the air. He made sure that he was holding the glass of water – always on the edge of the table during meetings like these – and splashing it slightly to the floor.

“Don’t get me wrong, Simon,” Bruce said, making sure to drawl out Stagg’s given name just to make the man’s eyes narrow. “It’s a reasonable suggestion, but it’s not necessary.”

“Not necessary,” Boyle repeated. He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what I said, son,” Bruce said. Meeting Boyle’s eyes, he sipped at his water, deliberately taking a long time just to watch anger gathering in the deepening crease between his brows. It was petty, perhaps, but Bruce Wayne was well-known for having an overinflated enough sense of self that he simply wouldn’t care about wasting people’s time.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine telling Boyle what he really thought; throwing words into Boyle’s face about the need for human dignity and how Boyle and the money he threw at the Foundation for tax benefits didn’t give him the right to demand for human beings to be stripped of their choices.  
 _  
_He didn’t. There was only one way to speak in a room like this one. Only one way to behave.

Boyle’s teeth started to grind together. Bruce continued to sip at his water. His own heartbeat was starting to thunder in his own ears, but he shifted his focus away from it to the taste of the expensive, chilled mineral water sweeping over his tongue.

After the second swallow, Boyle’s patience visibly snapped: “Why, Mister Wayne, is it _not necessary_?” 

“Lucius Fox, you all know Lucius, I suppose,” Bruce waited until he had a few nods, “He was telling about a few ads he saw plastered around the train stations lately. Of course, he was showing me the vandalism that’s done on them – part of the news, of course, Lucius’s strange version of small talk – but I could still read the words underneath the painted ones.” He winked. “Yes, I _can_ read.”

The sound of Boyle’s teeth grinding grew louder. 

“They were ads for a new-fangled app for smartphones,” Bruce continued, keeping his gaze away from Boyle. “Some kind of job search thing. So, I was thinking, the smartphones that Ferris saw have become a necessity, haven’t they?” He shrugged. “No one does old-fashioned texting or calling anymore, nowadays; it’s all down to one app or another, using wi-fi or 4G.” He tapped his lip, cocking his head to the side. “Hey, how’s that for an idea? Free wi-fi access for every single household in the East End?”

( _Why do you want the tires for, anyway? The orphanages get enough funding to ensure that the most basic needs are met, and no one needs to pay for school fees._

_Jesus fucking Christ, Bruce—_

_Language—_

_Fuck off. Listen, you know what I want the tires for? I want them ‘cause they’ll be a few hundred bucks, each, so I can get maybe a thousand. That’s enough for one computer for the orphanage, with a bit extra left. Maybe I can get some of the younger kids fancy backpacks – one of them keeps staring at a_ Finding Nemo _one – and bring some of the others to one of those nice restaurants so they can get a taste of steak for the first time in their fucking lives.  
_  
 _Oh.)  
_  
“We’re getting away from the topic, Mister Wayne,” Stagg said.

Bruce cocked his head to the side. “We have a topic?”

“It’s a matter of _accountability_ ,” Boyle interrupted before Stagg could say another word. He leaned in, eyes flashing and narrowed on Bruce. “Sure, there can be some of our _beneficiaries_ ,” he had a particular way of rolling the word on his tongue until it sounded like _riffraff_ or _trash_ instead, “who use their smartphones for the job-hunting apps, but how many more are just using them for Tinder? Grindr? Some kind of game?”

There were words in his throat. Sharp words, direct words. Bruce leaned back on his plush leather chair, rolling back and forth slightly, letting the quiet squeak of the metal try to drown out the cacophony in his head.

“A French supermodel I dated once told me a story,” he said. Reaching out a hand, he traced the rim of his water glass with his fingertip. “In reply to someone telling her that peasants had no bread to eat, a Queen of France said to let those peasants eat cake instead.” He flicked condensation off with his nails, meeting Boyle’s eyes above them. “She had a point there, Ferris. Whether it’s bread or cake, flour is still a necessity.”

Boyle’s eyebrows furrowed further as he tried to keep up with Bruce Wayne’s particular brand of logic.

_(Look, it’s not like— I know it sounds stupid, okay? I know. I didn’t try to steal your tires, I haven’t been stealing shit, because I’ve got a little sister who’s sick and need medical treatment or some nice shit like that. What I did it for isn’t going to win me any fucking sympathy from cops or anything, but it’s just—  
_  
 _You don’t have to explain—_ ) 

“I agree with Mister Boyle, Mister Wayne,” Stagg said again. Bruce lazily transferred his gaze to him. Seated next to Boyle, he now had a hand on the other man’s elbow. Most likely trying to calm him down, though Bruce Wayne surely didn’t have the wits to notice the thickening rage surrounding Boyle. “Asking our beneficiaries to account for their purchases will give them an incentive to be more careful with their spending. It’ll be for their own good.”

“What’ll be next after smartphones, Wayne?” Boyle burst out, seemingly unable to control himself any longer. “Alcohol? Drugs? Gambling? Are you going to find some story to say that those are necessities, too?”

“ _Ferris_ ,” Stagg hissed, but Bruce didn’t allow him the chance to rescue the situation. He sat up and jabbed a finger in Boyle’s direction.

“A high schooler can recognise a slippery slope when it’s presented to them, Mister Boyle.” He snapped the words out, lacing them with the triumph of a man who caught someone he knew to be smarter than him to have done something stupid. “And I have various degrees that say that I’m more qualified than a high schooler. Some even from the Ivy Leagues.”

All bought, of course. It wasn’t as if Bruce had time for college with all of the training he had undergone. He waved the thought away with a hand even as he leaned forward even further, sliding his elbows on the table as he grinned lopsidedly at Boyle.

“I think I see what your problem with the smartphones is, now, Ferris,” he said. “It’s the Tinder and Grindr that you mentioned, wasn’t it? Are you afraid of finding one of our beneficiaries there? Do you live in fear that, one day, you will find that one of the people that you swipe right for lives in the East End instead of uptown?” As Boyle’s face slowly purpled with rage, Bruce curled his lips into a small smirk.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “I can look for dates for you. Or hook-ups, if that’s what you prefer. You won’t have to worry about Tinder or Grindr again.”

“How _dare_ you?” Boyle spat at him.

( _Shut up, shut up! You don’t know what it’s like! You don’t know what it’s like to have to depend on_ handouts _! It stinks, okay? There’s a fucking stench that comes with looking like you’re so poor that you own nothing that’s not given to you. It makes people look down on you and look, I’m old enough to be used to it, but the_ kids, _fuck, they’re getting used to it, they’re— and I don’t want them to— fuck—  
_  
 _Jason, Jason, don’t cry, come here, don’t cry—_ ) _  
_  
“I’m offering to _help_ you, Ferris,” Bruce said, placing a hand over his chest now and feigning a look of disbelieving hurt. “You might not be much to look at, but there are plenty of women – and men – who are more taken in by brains than by body or face.” He turned towards Stagg. “Sapiosexual, isn’t it? That’s the word for it?” 

Stagg pressed his lips together. Bruce could practically hear the heavy gust of air he exhaled through his nose. “I wouldn’t know, Mister Wayne,” he said, voice even. “But if you refuse to take our concerns seriously—”

“But I _am_ taking them seriously,” Bruce interrupted, upping the wattage of confused hurt by widening his eyes. “Like I said, there are job-hunting apps out there that makes smartphones a necessity for our beneficiaries, and buying smartphones has even less to do with buying alcohol or drugs or going gambling than the Queen of France with flour.”

Boyle’s eyes went wide. Beside him, Stagg’s indrawn breath was loud in the boardroom. 

He had heard the whispers, of course: _Bruce Wayne isn’t nearly as stupid as he acts_. Some went even further: _he’s like a fox, luring you in before he pounces and traps you._ Rumours that he couldn’t stop: twenty years of using people’s underestimation of him to adjust situations so they were closer to his estimation of ideal couldn’t be brushed off as mere coincidence or luck. It was a risk he had to take unless he was willing to become a helpless pawn within the company and the Foundation that bore his name.

( _Look, I’ve heard you try to explain it, and I get what you’re saying, but I still don’t get it._

_Which part?_

_The part about why you gotta act stupid, Bruce. Maybe it’s just something else ‘bout where I come from, ‘cause when you’re dumb on the streets you’re asking to be robbed or beaten up or raped or any of those things. You gotta act like you’re smarter and tougher than everyone else, even if you know you aren’t, and you kind of do that, as Batman. I just don’t get why you don’t flaunt that you’re smarter than all those rich fuckers out there when you_ are _._ )

He took on the role of the CEO of Wayne Enterprises instead of just its majority shareholder after Jason’s death. Sometimes, he still wondered if Jason would be pleased with him doing that, or if Jason would instead be pissed that he waited until he was dead before doing things that would please him.

Most likely the latter.

Bruce rocked himself forward, the wheels of his chair rolling across the polished marble floor. He caught the table’s edge with his hands before he could crash and used the momentum to pull himself to his feet.

“If there’s nothing else, ladies and gentlemen, I say that the meeting has been adjourned,” he said. He gave the room a wink. “I have a date to prepare for.”

As he turned, he heard Boyle say, in a whisper that was obviously meant to be overheard: “I should’ve expected nothing less than a man who took in a gypsy and street trash to—”

Leather soles screeched. The sound of breath rattling in a suddenly-closed throat. Silence, heavy and thick.

It would be difficult for Boyle to speak, Bruce thought distantly, when Bruce’s fist clenched around his collar tight enough to cut off his air. 

“Do not,” he said, barely managing to exert enough control to not snarl out the words in the Bat’s growl, “ever speak about my children that way again.” 

Bruce slowly relaxed his fingers. He stood up straight, using all six feet four inches of his height to look _down_ at Boyle for the briefest of moments. Brushed them over his lapels.

“Sorry.” Light, clearly insincere. With enough of an edge of teeth to ensure that the board would whisper about this but not speak any louder. “That’s a bit of a sensitive topic for me. I hope you’ll understand.” 

( _I need to ensure that none of them would ever suspect that I’m Batman, Jason. Besides, it’s… it’s sometimes easier to get things done, to get your way, if they think that they’re better than me. Easier for me to get my way if they believe that they’re getting theirs instead._

_That’s fucking stupid. Or maybe I just don’t get it ‘cause I’m dumb street trash—_

_Don’t say that. Don’t call yourself that._

_Why? Not using the words ain’t gonna change what I am. Ain’t gonna change what people think when they look at me._ )

He headed for the door. No one tried to stop him. With one hand on the frame, he turned back and met the eyes of his board members. He catalogued the levels of shock and disbelief and near-fear; he took stock of the rage that was thrumming, near-alive, in the room. There would be damage control to be done with regards to Bruce Wayne’s reputation of harmlessness after today.

But he refused to regret his lapse in control. Not when it came to his boys. Still, he didn’t slam the door behind him.

Bruce had almost reached his office – on the thirty-fourth floor, somewhere in the middle of the building even though there was a huge unused executive office right at the top floor – when his earpiece crackled.

“Master Wayne.” Alfred’s voice. “Would you like me to order some flowers?”

Stepping inside his office, Bruce closed the door behind him. His head smacked against the wood, and he let out a long breath as his legs folded until he was sitting on the floor. “Nah. I’ll just pick some of those when I get back. Maybe a few dandelions.”

( _It’s kind of stupid to spend money on a bunch of stuff that’s just going to die after a few days, you know? Besides, you can blow on the dandelion heads and watch them fly around. Can’t do that with roses and orchids or whatever else the fuck expensive shit with fancy names that is out there._ )

“The East End has plenty of those,” Alfred said. Then, before Bruce could reply, before he could drown in memories of the car blending into the dark and dirty streets of the East End with its rims showing because the tires had been taken, he continued. “Perhaps you’d like to make a call? Or perhaps make a visit to our neighbouring city?”

Bruce closed his eyes. He let out a breath. “No,” he said. “He’s probably busy.”

Alfred would protest further, would make implications that Bruce should pay attention to the son he had left alive instead of clinging to the one who was dead. The argument was old enough that he had memorised it by now.

Reaching up, Bruce detached the earpiece from his ear. With a twist and slide of his thumb, he broke it apart and dropped it to the carpeted floor. His head dropped forward. He pressed his face into his knees.

He wished he could say what he really thought to those bastards. Wished he could grab all of them by their lapels and lift them up and scream into their faces until they _understood_ the horror and indignity of their supposedly reasonable suggestions.

But board meetings were a game with strict rules and codes of behaviour. A careful dance like those children played as they jumped through squares without touching the lines. Because even brushing a toe against the lines would make them explode, and destroy everything.

( _I’m too damned old for toys, Bruce, look, c’mon, if you want me to play, then I’ll show you one of the games I used to play on the sidewalk—_ ) _  
_  
It could only be this way.

***

The plot was massive. Bigger than the usual plot for a house, closer to a hectare than an acre. Clark had only ever seen so much unoccupied land in one place when there was nothing in the skyline except for wheat and corn, never with Metropolis edging into the corner of his vision, the Daily Planet’s globe – at Metropolis’s East Side, past the old city and Hell’s Gate – turned small enough to close his fist around.

Metropolis in the distance, close enough that Clark could reach there in seconds with his flight. But a plot of land so large that there was literally no one close enough to see and find odd that Superman was standing here with Bruce Wayne. Clark let out a shuddering breath.

“When you said a ‘lot’, I wasn’t exactly thinking about something like this,” Clark said. He wished Superman’s uniform had pockets so he could hide his hands inside them; it was getting a bit difficult to stifle the twitches his fingers wanted to make. “I was thinking about… you know, the kind of plot big enough for a shophouse? Or even one that’s a hundred by a hundred feet?”

Bruce shrugged. He stood there, surrounded by building materials – bricks and steel beams and God knew what else that Clark couldn’t identify – that would eventually be assembled to form the team’s new headquarters. “It needs to be big enough for a hangar,” he pointed out, voice flat as if the idea of him buying a damned _jet_ for the team to use was just reasonable and logical. “A house-sized plot of land won’t be enough.”

Clark gave up resisting the urge to rub a hand over his face. 

“A hangar,” he repeated.

“Plus training rooms, at least one built to the specification for our needs,” Bruce said. His hands, Clark noted vaguely, were in the pockets of his slacks, ruining the carefully-tailored lines. “Rooms to socialise in, rooms to sleep in during the occasions when there won’t be time for any of us to return to our homes… Space to expand the moment there is need.” He shrugged, back still to Clark. “Having at least a hectare is a good investment.”

His tone didn’t insinuate it, didn’t even hint at it, but Clark heard the unspoken words anyway: _You would’ve known that, if you had bothered looking at the plans_. Clark hissed out a breath. “It’s,” he tried. After a moment, he shook his head.

“My original idea was a satellite,” Bruce said, and maybe he didn’t witness Clark’s eyes nearly bugging out of his head, but Clark suspected he did. “It’ll be a good idea, because then we won’t be grounded to any piece of land that would constitute part of one government’s territory, but teleport technology isn’t developed enough yet even with Victor working on it using the information he has from the motherbox. So, until we have that, this,” he waved a hand to the plot of land _as big as a football field_ , “would have to do.”

“Bruce,” Clark said, his voice barely more than a croak. “How much does all this _cost_?”

Midway through picking up a brick, Bruce paused. His back unbent, and his shoulders straightened. Without turning to look at Clark, he said, “You’re uncomfortable with this.” Then, before Clark could scramble for a reply, he continued, “Is it because you think that my money can be better used? To help with the poverty levels in Gotham, perhaps?”

Clark clicked his mouth back shut. He found himself wondering, as if from a distance, if Bruce knew. If Bruce realised that Clark had _heard_ him, during that board meeting yesterday afternoon.

It wasn’t— it wasn’t that he was listening on purpose. But Lois’s words had gotten to him, and he was actually thinking about talking to Bruce. So, he was _thinking_ of Bruce, and, look, his powers hadn’t been exactly weird since he had come back from the dead, but they had become more sensitive somehow, more in-tune with his thoughts, and, okay, he was just thinking about Bruce and he remembered the sound of his heartbeat and his ears had started zeroing into it. When he realised that Bruce’s heart – always so steady, always so slow – had been thundering, he…

He thought Bruce was in trouble. The Gotham Bat only appeared at night, and it was bright daylight, and… Yeah, he heard. The oily, insinuating voice of Bruce Wayne’s public persona, matched with words that didn’t make a lot of sense and an undercurrent of rage. He had heard the voices of those two board members, too, and he had been angry, too, and he…

Honestly, he hadn’t known what to expect. Or that he had expected anything. He would be the first to admit that he knew practically nothing about Bruce, and maybe it was unfair of Clark to not expect that Bruce would understand how things would be like for those who were poor. Maybe it was unfair of him to think that Bruce, with his habit of flinging money around and buying a failing Midwestern bank for no reason other than getting Clark his house back, wouldn’t understand what it was _like_ —

“—the best investment I’ve made in years,” Bruce was saying.

Clark blinked. “What?”

“The team,” Bruce said, back still to Clark. He didn’t sound irritated that he had to repeat himself. There was no emotion in his voice at all. “What you’re all doing makes a difference. Give people hope. I’m just doing my part to ensure that money doesn’t become an obstacle to the good changes all of you can make.” He paused.

“It’s what I can do.”

_You’re not a bank account_ , Clark wanted to say. _I wouldn’t be here without you, the team wouldn’t exist without you,_ he should say. He could almost imagine it: striding up to Bruce, clutching him by his arms and dragging him close, letting spill all the words gathering in his lungs and head until they drowned Bruce, until he was filled with nothing but them.

But Ramona’s voice rang in his head again: _It’s my fault. It’s my choice._ A thousand implications in six simple words.

His own voice, cutting through his thoughts and the air: “Is that how you’ve kept on going for twenty years? Telling yourself that it’s the only thing you can do to better the world?”

Bruce turned. A sudden motion so violent that his hair loosened from its usual neat style. The sun had started setting when they started talking, and now the streaks of orange cast the strands into shadows sharp enough to slice across his eyes.

“What?” Emotionless and flat. Bruce’s heart picking up in speed, thundering for a space of five seconds. The expansion and deflation of his chest. A single breath, and his heartbeat slowed again.

“Did you hear about what happened in Damascus?” Clark asked.

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t stop it,” Clark said. “A second bomb went off and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop people from walking into a place full of civilians with bombs strapped to themselves and then setting them off. There was nothing I could do then except pull people and bodies from the wreckage. The papers said that there were more people than bodies, but it didn’t seem that way at the time.”

He took a deep breath. He wished, desperately, that he hadn’t decided to come straight here from his patrol around the world. He wished that he had gone back to Metropolis to change back into his clothes, the proper clothes instead of the uniform. It didn’t matter how strange it would look for a man dressed in civilian work clothes to be flying. He wanted pockets.

His hands were shaking and his head was a mess and this wasn’t how he’d meant to start this conversation. He still didn’t know how he’d meant to start it, but this definitely wasn’t it. But he was thinking of Bruce in the boardroom, his voice pitched higher than how he usually spoke. His defence, his anger, and how that came to nothing because not even Bruce Wayne could change the minds of the board members of his own Foundation—

The silence was stifling. “An ambulance at the bottom of the cliff,” Clark continued, his tongue tripping over the words. “That’s all I keep thinking that I was. Lois said I was at the middle of the cliff but that doesn’t help, because there are people pushing other people off the cliff and I can’t ever reach the top to stop them and I don’t know how you kept doing this for _twenty years_ —” 

“There are things you can do,” Bruce interrupted him. He was standing in front of Clark, now, and his hazel eyes were dark and finally, _finally_ , meeting Clark’s. “And there are things you can’t. Don’t discount the former just because of the latter.”

Clark blinked at him.

“Miss Lane is right,” Bruce continued. “You’re the ambulance in the middle of the cliff, snatching people from the air before they can reach the bottom. Maybe some of them have already died. Maybe you can’t catch all of them. But do you think that the individual lives you save really mean nothing, in the end?”

“That’s not what you really think,” Clark blurted out. When Bruce’s eyes narrowed, Clark took a deep breath, continued, “If that were what you really thought, then you wouldn’t see yourself as purely the team’s personal bank account.” Oh, here was that line. He thought he had lost it. He licked his lips.

“You wouldn’t… wouldn’t have said that you brought me back because the world needed me. You wouldn’t have tried to kill me,” he almost faltered when a nearly-imperceptible flinch went through Bruce’s body, but pressed on, “because you thought that was the way to keep the world safe. If… if you thought the individual lives are worth it, then—” 

“I never said that’s what I believed,” Bruce told him, voice still so steady that Clark wanted to scream. “I’m telling you that that’s what you need to believe in, if you want to keep going.”

“But you don’t believe in it,” Clark pointed out, desperation edging into his voice despite himself. “And you still keep going on.”

“What do you want me to tell you, Clark?” Bruce cocked his head to the side. “The truth? That it doesn’t matter how many people you save, because in the end, there are still going to be others who are put into the same position and you might not be able to save _those_?”

Clark had been trying to not think in those precise words. He stumbled backwards. He opened his mouth.

“Or perhaps you want the part of the truth that Steppenwolf was practically godsent, because there was _finally_ a problem that could be easily and cleanly solved?” Bruce continued in that soft, steady voice. “Or perhaps you want to hear that any desire to save anyone is just a matter of egoism?”

Now Clark was the one who could barely meet Bruce’s eyes. There was such fire in them, burning inwards, licking at Bruce’s insides with such ferocity despite the steady heartbeat and slower breaths that Clark could hear.

He exhaled. It shivered.

“Do you want, Clark,” Bruce continued, brutal to Clark, vicious to himself, “to hear me say that I bought your family’s farm to alleviate my own guilt, and therefore it absolves you of any debt to me?”

This time, Clark did step backwards. He should’ve known that Bruce would figure it out. It wasn’t as if he had been making himself particularly opaque, with all of his mentions of money.

“Or would you rather I say that I bought your family’s farm because it’s my way of ensuring that you owe me?” His fingers reached up, tracing the air above Clark’s cheekbones. “That, through buying the forged papers that allow Clark Kent to return from the dead, I now _own_ you?” 

The heat from Bruce’s skin stung his own. Burned with its lukewarmth, so different from his own too-high heat. Clark closed his eyes.

Of course Bruce would bring that up.

Clark hadn’t wanted to think about it; hadn’t wanted to even imagine just how much Bruce must have spent, the strings he’d had to pull, to ensure that the supposed truth of Clark Kent’s disappearance – that he had been sent to a Bludhaven hospital after the Doomsday attack but suffered a head injury severe enough that he forgot his own identity, and then was ushered into Gotham’s witness protection programme until a month after Superman’s return, when he remembered who he was – became legalised as reality. If not for Bruce, he wouldn’t have his job, wouldn’t have a chance to investigate Metropolis’s organised crime and help Ramona.

He hadn’t wanted to think about it. But he should have.

Might as well do something about it now. He forced himself to open his eyes and meet Bruce’s gaze. 

“Maybe I just want you to answer my question,” he said. “Instead of saying things that you believe will make me punch you.” He swallowed at the sound of Bruce’s tiny, hitched breath. “Though you’re actually not wrong about it: all you’re saying does make me want to punch you. But you forgot one thing, Bruce.”

Smiling lopsidedly, he whispered, “You can’t fool me into thinking that you’re a bastard. Not anymore.” Before Bruce could back up, he caught the other man’s wrist, gripping tight enough that he could hear the bones grind against each other. 

“It might not mean much to you, the difference you can make to a single life. It’s hard for me to grasp that has any weight in comparison to all the pain and suffering I can’t fix, too. But…” Clark opened his eyes fully, tipping his chin up slightly so he caught Bruce’s gaze and held it. “It made a difference to me, you buying the farm. Giving me my home, and my life, back.”

He swallowed. “I don’t like it. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. But it makes a difference.” 

“That,” Bruce said, dragging the word out until it became a hiss, “doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah,” Clark shrugged, because there was no other way he could make himself clearer. Not when he still couldn’t figure out what it was that bothered him about the situation. “But it is what it is.” He let go of Bruce’s wrist.

Bruce turned around immediately, heading back to the bricks and steel beams. Clark watched him. Despite all that Bruce had said, he still hadn’t given Clark an answer about how it was that he could manage to go on for twenty years despite how hopeless it was. Nothing about their conversation had told Clark what he was supposed to feel about Bruce buying the farm, Bruce buying this lot, Bruce and his money carving their marks into nearly everything in Clark’s life.

Clark rubbed his face with a hand. So, talking didn’t help, either. He looked at Bruce for a moment more before he sighed and took a step back.

And Superman took off and flew away into the skies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferris Boyle is stolen from the Arkham series of video games; he’s the head of GothCorp, a technological empire. Simon Stagg is the head of Stagg Industries, which deals with biochemistry; in the comics, he’s the person Pamela Isley was working for before she became Poison Ivy. Their characterisations have most likely been mangled for my purposes.
> 
> The boardroom scene is definitely inspired by my endless love affair with Jason Todd, the one Robin who came from a working-class background with all of its associated issues, and how he was killed via a vote from people who thought that having to deal with that is too unpleasant for superhero comics. (No, Jason isn’t going to be revived. But his existence is very, very important.)


	3. sealing (the foundations)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman has an altercation with Roman Sionis. Clark Kent pays a return visit to a past interviewee. Clark and Bruce fail miserably at asking each other for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** In the first scene: pretty graphic scenes of violence and interrogation from the clinical POV of the instigator, with further depiction of organised crime. In other words: Batman being Batman in Gotham.

Gotham’s old docks on the South Hinkley – the southernmost island within the city’s borders – had been abandoned for the last seven years, since the time when the Joker decided to plant bombs in several of the warehouses and set them all off at the same time. But even before them, these docks had rarely been used, because most of the ships entered the city through the proper Gotham Harbour further north, on the island commonly referred to as ‘downtown.’

Wayne Holdings held the deeds for the old docks, having bought them from the city with money and promises of refurbishment and renewal that were still left unfulfilled and would likely be forever left unfulfilled. As a result, the docks had become a magnet for crime, drawing in those who wanted to bring materials into the city that were, at least, illegal.

Convenient for the Bat. One of the grooves necessary for the cycle of crime to shift to its next stage. 

(And: this place was a tomb twice over. Jason had died here. Clark had, too. The collapse of two bright stars left only light and emptiness behind. There was no worth in rebuilding, because there was nothing good left in this place.) 

Heavy wheels crackled over asphalt. No headlights. A distance away, moonlight skimmed light over moving waters. The Bat settled further into his perch on top of the abandoned warehouse he had chosen, eyes narrowed behind the night-vision lenses of his cowl. He ignored the pains shooting up from his knees from staying in the position for too long.

“Shit!”

“Quiet! Do you want to bring the Bat down on us?”

“I almost tripped and fell on my face! Look, I’m gonna switch on my phone’s light.”

“Boss will kill us if you do that.”

“We need to see the faces of the pickups.” A ragged inhale. “And I’m not gonna meet them with a nose broken by the fucking ground.” 

A slice of blue in the night, nearly blinding in the devouring darkness of the docks. It slid, oily and slick, over the rubber galoshes on the feet of two men as they headed away from the water towards the incoming truck. Behind their feet were rubber wheels that glided silently over the concrete, leaving behind a trail of machine oil that glimmered under the phone held aloft in one scarred hand.

Precautions, the Bat noted. Sionis was being more careful, was taking precautions. But no praise could ever be given for the discipline of criminals. 

Slowly, the Bat unbent his legs. He stood, careful to sweep his cape out behind him so it made no sound. He knew these docks well enough to know the spots on this particular rooftop that would take his weight without making a sound; knew the air currents coming from the ocean that would muffle the sound of his leaps and landings as he followed the mid-level thugs in their ill-fitting suits towards the truck.

He crouched behind a dusty water tank – long fallen into disrepair, with rust crawling up the sides of the metal – and watched a broad-shouldered man exited the truck. He stepped to the side, and Sionis himself stepped down to the asphalt.

 _Crack_. A sharp backhand. Blue light scattered and dimmed as Sionis backhanded the man who had switched it on. The groan of pain echoed through the sudden silence. 

“I told you: _no light_ ,” Sionis’s voice hissed. The Bat tracked the movement of his head as he turned towards the remaining thug. “Report.”

Nervous, the Bat noted. Anxious enough that his emotions thrummed through the air around him, thick enough to make his subordinate swallow and jut his chin out, eyes staring into the hood of the truck behind Sionis instead of Sionis’s eyes. 

“Shipment from Hong Kong was waiting for us in Houma three days ago, boss, like you said it would,” the man said. _Houma_. Southeast Louisiana, skirting the edge of the state’s extended tip. A distance away from New Orleans, which meant that Sionis likely hadn’t made any alliances with the crime families in that city if he was still avoiding it. “Landed in Bludhaven last night. Took the boat here.”

“Anyone followed you?” Sionis asked.

“Not that we noticed, boss.”

“Good,” Sionis said. He stepped to the left and kicked out his foot. His subordinate on the ground yelped and got a steel-tipped shoe to his ribs for the noise he made. “Get up. Bring the box into the truck. I’ll check the goods out later.”

As the man nodded and tried to stand, the Bat unfurled from his crouch. Deliberately heavy steps to the roof’s edge sent quiet _thumps_ echoing into the cold, silent Gotham night. When Sionis’s head shot up, the Bat smiled.

“It’s _him_!” Sionis shouted. “Shoot him, c’mon, _shoot him_!”

The Bat pressed a button his belt. Then he jumped. The claw of his grapple sank into the top of the truck’s box. The screech of the metal was joined by shrieks of men as the Bat’s feet connected with their faces. Their bones broke beneath his silicon soles. Sionis was ducking down, heading for the truck’s passenger door. Without turning, the Bat threw one of his batarangs in his direction. Sionis choked off a scream as the blade sank into his shoulder, deep enough to cut through bone. He went down.

Sounds of gunshots filled the docks, then. Over ten men had poured out from the back of the truck, AK-47s in their hands. Canisters clanged and clinked as they rolled over the asphalt. The Bat shoved his rebreather over his nose and mouth as tear gas exploded outwards. Bullets sprayed everywhere, shells embedding themselves into buildings. A few grazed the Bat’s body armour, many more tore through the carbon fibre of his cape, as he dove towards the men and got them out of the way of their compatriots’ wild shots.

He stood there in the carnage for a few moments, waiting. The criminals laid there on the ground, groaning with pain and panting with fear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sionis’s hand twitch towards the gun hidden in his shoulder holster. As he walked towards the crate, the Bat threw another batarang, this time with enough force to pin Sionis’s hand straight into the asphalt. His scream rang out into the air.

When he ran his fingers over the edge of the crate, the computer at the wrist of his gauntlet beeped, informing him that a hundred and ten volts had been discharged and then dispersed by his armour. When he pressed the buttons to turn on the scanners on his fingertips, the screen told him that the outer shell of the crate was made of steel, but the inner layer was lead.

The Bat’s lips twisted. He spared another couple of glances towards the downed men and the swearing Sionis before he gripped the lid of the crate and _wrenched_ it open.

As he expected: green. A sickly green glow emitting from a rock no bigger than a fist. He should have known that Luthor wouldn’t have found the last of the kryptonite. Narrowing his eyes, he picked it up. Below the kryptonite, wrapped in thin paper and then covered with plastic, were plush figurines of fish. The Bat shifted the mineral to his elbow so he could tear the packaging apart and slide the blade of another batarang down the fish’s stomach.

White capsules, unlabelled. He would have to run some tests to find out what they were, but he had a strong suspicion that he already knew that the capsules didn’t contain drugs at all. The crate came from Hong Kong. Though the island itself wasn’t exactly known for its scientific research and development, it bordered China. And China had the highest production of nanotechnology in the entire world.

Sionis was branching out his business. Mannheim’s escape to Metropolis must have disturbed him more than the Bat had previously suspected it would.

Dropping everything back into the crate, the Bat covered it again. Then he turned around and headed for Sionis. He pinned the hands of a few more men into the asphalt with his batarangs before those fingers could reach for a gun. Then he grabbed Sionis by the collar and dragged him to his feet. Muscle and tendons tore as Sionis’s hand went _through_ the batarang that had been pinning him to the ground.

He screamed. The cowl had been equipped with muffling technology that cut off noise above certain decibels if it continued for over two seconds, so the Bat wasn’t much affected by the sound. He pulled Sionis to the ground and slammed him against it at a precise angle that would dig the sharp metal edge against his neck.

“You once said that you don’t deal with arms,” he stated. “You changed your mind.” 

It was the truth: Sionis’s money came from gambling – underground fighting rings, moving casinos, rigged horse races – prostitutes, drugs, and landsharking; services provided to a certain portion of the population that would always exist. He had never touched weapons, because they required a reach and a risk that he usually did not have. 

“Why?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Sionis hissed. The Bat considered him for a moment, then turned him around so that his throat pressed against the crate’s edge instead. He ground Sionis’s face against the metal top. 

“A shipment of very specific weapons given to a man who has never touched them before,” the Bat said. “Who commissioned you, Sionis?”

“I’m not going to—” the Bat kicked Sionis’s hand back to the ground, cutting Sionis off. He rubbed the dust on his sole straight into the open, bleeding wound, dragging out another choked scream.

“Two questions,” the Bat said. “Why, and who?” He flung another canister from his belt and flung it over his shoulder. Pepper sprayed into the eyes of the Sionis’s downed thugs, stopping them from making any inconvenient movements. “I won’t repeat myself.”

Sionis’s breathing was very loud, piercing through the incoherent gibbers and breathless gasps of the men behind them. The Bat waited. Sionis was a criminal, and therefore he was a coward. Sionis was a businessman, and therefore he was pragmatic. Cut off his escape route, cut off his source of potential profits, and his bravado collapsed like a house of cards. The Bat had witnessed it happen before.

“Mannheim’s being a copycat,” Sionis spat out eventually. “He’s safe in Superman’s territory.” 

There were several possibilities. First, the one Sionis likely wanted him to think, Sionis wanted to take out Superman so that he would have a chance to gut Mannheim. But that would be a stupid move: all Sionis needed to do was to seed Metropolis with his assassins to keep an eye on Mannheim and wait for Superman to be busy with an emergency outside the city before he struck. Second, Sionis wanted to continue his gang war against Mannheim, and wanted some security against Superman’s interference by finding kryptonite. But that didn’t explain the white capsules.

The Bat had been slowly grinding Sionis’s face against the top of the crate as he thought. As the conclusion coalesced in his head, his lips curled into a smile full of teeth.

“There’s a new market for these things,” he said. “And you want to be the first to partake in it. It has nothing to do with Mannheim at all.”

Sionis _snarled_ , trying to struggle out of the Bat’s grip. He allowed the man to turn his head so those hateful eyes could see the sharpness of his smile.

“You really think that there aren’t consequences to your super-friends appearing out of thin air?” Sionis barked a laugh. “No consequence to Superman coming back from the dead? Fuck with the laws of nature, _Bat_ , and get ready for people wanting to have some insurance.”

Pulling the man back by his collar, the Bat threw him to the side. He retrieved a bag from his belt and threw the contents of the crate inside it. “Noted,” he told Sionis.

Sionis’s lips curled. He stared at the Bat for a moment before turning his head and spitting on the ground. Given that he was flat on his back, the effect of his disdain was greatly reduced. The Bat just swung the bag up on his shoulder. He shot his grapple line out and headed up to another rooftop.

Up above, he could see them. Sionis’s second precaution, arriving too late to stop his cowardice from overtaking any form of bravado he might make claim to: three cars without license plates arriving, each one of them likely stuffed with men owning illegal guns. A distance behind them were white cars decorated with blue: Gordon’s police officers summoned by the signal that the Bat had sent to the precinct before he had confronted Sionis. They would have some arrests to make, though the Bat was rather sure that Sionis would get off scot-free.

It had always been this way. Gotham didn’t have nearly enough good men and women to fill the places of the police and the courts whenever the corrupt had been excised, and so arrests and charges always ran off Sionis’s back like water off a duck’s. Those who went to jail were his subordinates, those that he judged to be expendable, and there would always be more in the city who were attracted by his promises of easy money. 

Even when Sionis was convicted like he had been five years ago, he simply continued his operations from within the confines of jail because there were enough guards tempted by his money to allow him to do so. And no matter how much money Sionis spent, no matter how much profits he lost, there would always be more to fill his coffers again. Because Sionis dealt with services that would always, _always_ , have clients.

An unbreakable cycle. But now there was a new groove.

The Bat flung the bag of Sionis’s goods into the car before he ducked into it. He sat there, with his hands on the steering wheel, thinking. Sionis wasn’t going to let this stop him. All the Bat’s presence had done was to cut him off from one source of the weapons he sought and make him warier the next time he tried to get another shipment. Even if the Bat stopped him again, he would still try, because there was a market and Sionis was a businessman. At most, he would simply take this particular part of his operations out of Gotham. Given that he was receiving shipments from Houma and Hong Kong, he clearly had enough connections to do so.

There needed to be another deterrent. Sionis needed to be _too afraid_ to ever try to traffic in weapons aimed at taking them down. He needed to see that the costs of appealing to such a market would far outweigh the benefits.

He needed to have the fear of God put into him. So much fear that even _thinking_ about hurting God himself would make him seize up and start trembling.

The Bat’s lips curled into a cold smirk. He floored the accelerator return to the Cave. He knew someone who could do that. Sionis might have dealt with the Bat long enough to gain some immunity, but there was a man who could inspire so much fear that the Bat could still taste the remnants of it on the tip of his own tongue.

The only question was if he would be willing. 

***

Suicide Slum was an area barely a kilometre in diameter; a circle of dilapidated buildings crammed together fifteen minutes’ walk away from Hob’s Bay and its tourist shops and half an hour by foot from Heroes Park. Most who lived here were migrant labourers who worked as cleaners or retail assistants or construction workers – the jobs considered too low-ranking and menial for most of Metropolis’s ‘actual citizens’ – alongside the squatters, the drug addicts, the gang members, and the prostitutes. 

Clark never liked approaching the slums from the north: the shift from the glittering skyscrapers so characteristic of Metropolis to the squat and grey blocks of the slums was always so sharp that it was disorientating. Besides, he lived in Midtown, to the west of the slums; the walk from Clinton Street gave him a few buildings in various states of decay and disrepair and allowed him some time to sink into the atmosphere of poverty and misery.

It was selfish of him to walk, he knew. Nearly all the slums’ residents who had reason to escape the place during the day had to take the subway; they didn’t have the time to walk, like Clark did. ( _One_ subway station serving the slums: named _Metropolis University_ and tucked close to that campus around ten minutes to the northwest. If someone looked only at the subway map, the Suicide Slums did not exist. Clark knew better than to doubt the deliberateness of that particular decision.)

Whenever Clark came here, he thought of a place he had heard of during his travels: the Kowloon Walled City, in Hong Kong, a tiny fenced community of people living in broken-down apartments crammed together in skyscrapers that reached up to the skies. Or, at least, that was how it looked like in the pictures. By the time Clark had started travelling, the Walled City had already been torn down and replaced by a park, and its remnants made into a tourist attraction.

Sometimes Clark wondered how long it would take before the same thing happened to the Suicide Slums. He wondered when Metropolis’s mayor would finally do something about the thousands of complaints he got monthly about how much of an eyesore the slums were, situated as they were so close to the residences of those who consider themselves respectable. Maybe the mayor would use the excuse that the slums had the highest rate of committed felonies in the city to sweep it off the city’s map entirely, never mind that Clark knew for a fact that Bruno Mannheim – the man responsible for the rise of organised crime in the city – lived in a penthouse uptown, all the way to the west, on the other side of Metropolis.

Clark wondered what would happen to the people who lived here when that time came. He knew he should do something about that. Make preparations to stop it, once it came. But he didn’t know what he could do. Didn’t know of anything he _could_ do, as either Superman or Clark Kent.

Taking a deep breath, he shook the thoughts out of his head and looked around him. The last time he had been here, two weeks ago, he had found Ramona loitering in this alley tucked in between a homeless shelter and an abandoned warehouse converted into squatter residences. But now, standing at the alley’s mouth, he saw that it was empty. 

The entirety of the street was empty. Even the shelter’s lights weren’t switched on. He could hear no heartbeats inside the warehouse.

“Police came two days ago,” a voice said behind him. “Raided the place, took a bunch of people away. People in charge of the shelter were also taken away. For investigation.” She pronounced the word carefully, enunciating each syllable. “Police suspect them of helping people to buy and sell drugs.”

Ramona stood there behind him, the dim streetlights of the Suicide Slums casting a sickly orange glow to her skin that matched the embers of the cigarette between her lips. When Clark blinked at her, she gave him a crooked smile.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she said. “But I thought you would come back.” She took a deep drag of her cigarette. Her hand trembled. “So, I am here.”

Clark stifled a wince. That hit a bit too close to the reason why he was here. He ducked his head, bit his lip. “Thank you,” he managed to say. Then, he asked the ground, “Can I buy you for the night again?” Her gaze on him through the curling smoke was heavy enough that he added, hurriedly, “To talk. Just to talk. I have something to tell you.”

“You can tell me here,” Ramona pointed out.

“I’d rather not,” Clark said, keeping his voice gentle. “I’d like to have some privacy, if you don’t mind.”

Shrugging, she said, “It’s your money,” and started to turn. 

“It is,” Clark said, with a firmness he didn’t really feel. His pay had come in only last week, and he had used most of it to cover rent and utilities and send money back to Mom. (He had made a trip back to Smallville to give it to her in cash, because he knew that if he transferred it into her account, she would just send it right back. He did his best to not take closer looks at how the farm looked while he was there; just scanned it to see that there wasn’t anything going wrong.) 

There wasn’t much for him to live on for the rest of the month – he was still on a junior reporter’s salary – but that was alright. He just had to escape the office during lunchtime more than usual to make sure that no one noticed that he wasn’t eating lunch. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had time for dinner anyway, most days. 

In any case, he could afford spending a couple hundred dollars for one full night with Ramona. Even if his talk with her didn’t last until dawn, he could try to convince her to sleep. Going without food, without eating, for a week to give her a night of peaceful sleep was pretty worth it.

As he followed Ramona, he realised that they weren’t heading in the direction of that apartment she had used the last time. Or, well, he guessed that they weren’t: there were only two proper streets within the area – perpendicular to each other and intersecting in the centre – while all other roads were narrow alleyways, and many houses were actually inaccessible except through crossing abandoned lots filled with half-finished construction or entering into an empty warehouse and exiting through another door. The slums were such a maze that Clark couldn’t exactly be sure of his own bearings. 

But he would have remembered the scaffolding vandalised with neon green paint and the abandoned house with scorched marks on the walls if he had seen them before. So, he had _some_ certainty that they were heading somewhere else.

“Had to move,” Ramona explained as she took him down what looked like a dead-end only to duck underneath the awning of the innermost house. The path that laid in front of them wasn’t even wide enough to be called an _alley_ , and Clark pulled his coat tighter around his body as he crab-walked eastward. “Plainclothes police have been loitering around that part.” 

The end of the road was a wall broken off at waist-level, bracketing in pieces of broken furniture covered in dust and smelling strongly of mildew and rot. Clark resisted the urge to hover an inch off the ground so he wouldn’t end up crashing through the cracked concrete. 

“Do you do that often?” he asked when they ducked inside another alleyway. “Move places?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t all of you take that chance of escape?” Clark blurted out, eyes wide on Ramona. He narrowly avoided smashing the edge of a jutting staircase with his head. “Just leave?”

“Nowhere to go.” Ramona flashed him a bitter smile over her shoulder. “Besides, they all know this place better than we do. They’ve lived here for a much longer time.” 

“Oh,” Clark said. Then he couldn’t say anything else, because the road ahead opened up to a proper alleyway again, and at the mouth, shades gleaming in the streetlight, was Ramona’s pimp. 

As Ramona approached, the man raised a hand. Before the blow could land, Clark took hold of the rough wrist. Without speaking, he dug out his wallet and pulled out the two hundred dollars he had withdrawn earlier that night and flung it forward. The bills crackled in the heavy night air as they hit the pimp’s chest, and the man scrambled to both glare and Clark and catch the money before it dropped to the filthy ground.

“I’m buying her time for the rest of the night,” Clark said, jerking the man’s wrist in his hand until he got his attention. “She’s mine, now, and you’re not going to touch her. You won’t hit her even when I’m gone, you understand?”

The pimp’s eyes went wide for a moment before they narrowed. He struggled against Clark’s grip for a moment before Clark deliberately let go. “Fine,” he said. His gaze flicked towards the ground, and Clark could see him weighing his pride against the money at his feet. It took only a few moments before the pimp went to his knees to pick up the cash.

Clark turned away and swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise to his mouth. He thought of Bruce. What would Bruce think, if he saw Clark acting like this? Not like a decent person, but someone who could talk about other people like they were objects, who not only used threats of violence but violence itself to get his way?

Bruce would think that he was right about Clark the first time. That Clark was nothing but a monster.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. Bruce wouldn’t know about this, and Clark knew enough about how things worked around here that talking nicely wasn’t going to stop Ramona from being hurt. Not that he was sure that this would work to keep her safe once he was gone, but it was the least he could do.

The building behind him was half-destroyed, the first floor an exposed husk of cracked surfaces and peeling plaster with only the pillars still left standing. Ramona led him to the guarded staircase tucked away at the back corner, and they headed up and then down the hallway into a room.

It was even smaller than the previous one, furnished with a thin, queen-sized mattress set on a board placed atop four uneven legs and nothing else. Exposed wiring ran along the walls, connected to a bare lightbulb on the ceiling and a small standing fan. The windows were nothing but wooden boards taped to the frame. One was closed, while the other was close to falling to the street; a parody of a half-opened glass pane. 

Ramona sat down on the mattress. She pulled out her pack and lit up a cigarette. The floor was littered with butts and emptied syringe barrels and plastic packaging. Clark gingerly toed a few of them away before he sat down at the edge of the makeshift bed. It wasn’t as if he was wearing expensive slacks anyway.

“I’m probably going to break this thing if I sit on it,” he said.

“Won’t be the first time,” Ramona said, taking a deep drag. She looked at him for a moment before she smiled, brightness nudging at the edges of her mouth. “I was hoping you would come again, but I didn’t think you would.”

Despite himself, Clark smiled. “I did promise to ask my sources about your family and your village,” he said. “I’m just sorry that it took so long.”

Even though it had taken him less than an hour to fly to Romania and find the village, he had made her wait for two weeks. It would be suspicious for a journalist to be able to find information about a place so far away quickly, after all, but Clark still felt guilty.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ramona said, waving a hand. Ash scattered on the mattress, and she brushed it away. “So? Did you find out anything?”

“I…” he had found out plenty. He had come here to tell her everything. But now that he was sitting in front of her, he looked into her eyes, bright with hope, and felt all of the words die in his throat.

He took her hands. They were cold. There was a streak of sickly yellow-brown just below the first knuckle of her middle finger; the marks of smoking too many cheap cigarettes. There were bruises on her thighs, barely covered by her too-short shorts that were surely no protection for the night-time chill of lingering winter seeping through the thin walls and the broken windows.

“Are they all dead?” Ramona asked. When Clark lifted his head, her face was blank and her eyes empty. She lifted her cigarette to her mouth, but only held it there. Ash shivered at the tip, and the bright orange embers pulsed weakly every second.

“They’re not dead,” Clark said. “They’re…” He closed his eyes.

There was a particular quality to the wind as it passed by newly-abandoned farms and houses; a muted howl like grief hushed in faint, vain hope for voices to fill the silence. Impossible to tear out of his heart to form into words. 

“How was the village?” he asked. “When you left?” 

“The harvests have been bad for years,” Ramona said. She was speaking Romanian, now, English thrown away for the language of her homeland as she returned to it in her mind. “The weather kept changing. Bad changes, strange changes.” She pulled nicotine into her lungs and shook her head. “Lots of the young people were talking about leaving, about going to the cities. But the elders kept asking them to stay. They kept saying… saying that there is still hope. That the village has been home for generations.”

She flicked the cigarette butt onto the ground, and stepped on it. “That’s not true anymore, is it?”

“It’s not,” Clark said. “My source said that there are mostly only old people in the village, now.” He looked down at her hand as she pulled it away from his loose clasp to grip her own elbow. “Except…” He swallowed. “Except for your family. They’re still there.”

“What?” Ramona blinked.

Clark hadn’t meant to listen. He meant to only hover above the village, hidden within the forests that surrounded the place, without being seen. Without disturbing the lives of those there; without invading into their privacy.

But the wind had been so lonely, and it had grabbed onto whatever voices it could hear and brought them to him, the first stranger it had touched in possibly months, or perhaps even years.

 _This is the only place she knows to find us_. An older man’s voice, made rough and hoarse by decades of shouting across fields. _She’ll come back, and we will be here, waiting for her_.

“Your whole family is still staying in the village,” Clark told her. “Your younger brother,” the next oldest after her, he guessed, “he wanted to leave, wanted to go to the city, and he wanted everyone to come with him. But your parents insisted on staying because they…”

 _There’s nothing here!_ A young man’s voice, newly broken; he couldn’t be more than fifteen, if that. _If we wait for her here, she’ll come back to nothing but corpses! If we stay, we’re going to die here!_

“They’re waiting for you,” Clark finished, staring at the crushed cigarette butt on the floor, right next to Ramona’s torn and ragged sneaker. “They’re staying in the village to wait for you.”  
__  
We can’t leave, the old man had insisted. _Everyone is leaving. Soon, there’ll be no one left to tell her where we went if we leave. She’ll never find us. We’ll never see her again._  
  
Ramona made a sound, raw and harsh from the base of her throat. Her legs drew up, knees pressing to her chest. Clark continued to stare at the floor.

“The house,” she asked, the words barely coherent. “What about the house?”

Wind brought him angry words; it brought him the sound of air whistling through walls falling apart and roofs caving in.

“I don’t think the men who lied to you kept their promises,” Clark said. Perhaps it was cruel to tell her the truth. Perhaps it was cruel to have come here at all. But she had in her shaking hands so many broken promises made by those who used her; she had so many lies and shattered hopes. And it was selfish of him, but he couldn’t bear to add more to the number.

A low keen escaped her. She buried her face into her hands. Clark gripped his own elbows, pressing them against his chest so he didn’t reach out to her. She wouldn’t want to be touched by him. He didn’t deserve to try to comfort her when there was nothing he could do.

His powers were helpless, here. No matter how much people compared his powers to those of a god, there was nothing they could do here to help her.

Even if he flew her away from this place, away from her pimp, there was nowhere she could go. Even if he flew her back to Romania, it wouldn’t solve the failing farm, the house falling apart. All he could do was to buy her for one night, and with that perhaps a chance to sleep without being disturbed. A night of conversation that tore her into pieces and leave her bleeding on the ground, heart’s blood spilling all over this filthy floor.

He wanted to tell her, _I can help you._ He wanted to take her into his arms like he did the people he saved from burning buildings, and tell her, _You’re safe now_. But none of that was true. None of that could become true because of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She shook her head. “I knew they lied to me,” she mumbled. “But I wanted… I wanted to _believe_ that I…” Words died beneath the wretched sound she made. Her shoulders trembled. 

_It’s my fault_ , she had told him. _It’s my choice_. Clark had been using those words for his own selfish ends as a justification for free will; to excuse all that he couldn’t do. But now he knew that wasn’t true. That wasn’t because… because she said them, believed in them, because she desperately needed something to hold onto. Something that could pretend to be whole while she was surrounded by brokenness and ruins.

Clark took a deep breath. He reached out and brushed the palms of his hands over her shoulders. When she looked at him, he tried to smile, and the expression froze on his face when she threw herself forward, her arms flinging around his neck. The grip was nearly strong enough to cut off his air, but he didn’t need to breathe anyway.

He held her and stroked her hair like he would a young child. “We’re doing anything you want tonight,” he told her softly. “If you want to talk, we’ll talk, and I won’t record anything. If you want me to leave, then I’ll leave. Anything you want.”

Ramona nodded. “I don’t know—” she started. Stopped. Took a breath that shuddered and rattled through her lungs. “Just like this. Is that okay? Just like this. For a bit.”

“That’s fine,” Clark said. He stroked his hand through her hair again. “That’s fine.”

It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t doing enough. And, worse still, he knew that it was selfishness driving him, the need to do something, _give_ something. He was meant to bring change, to make things better. He was meant and made to _save_ , and yet he couldn’t, he couldn’t because he couldn’t—

Clark closed his eyes. The answer had always been there; had been there ever since the first time he met Ramona. There was only one power that could save her, a power that he didn’t have. But… but he knew a man who had it. A man who would give it to him, a man who had so much of it that he wouldn’t even feel the loss, and Clark knew that all he had to do was ask.

He didn’t want to ask. He could see the scales behind his eyes, weighed irreparable in Bruce’s favour. He could feel the phantom warmth of Bruce’s hand skirting over his cheek even now, nearly a week after Bruce had tried to touch him.

But he had to ask, for Ramona’s sake. Even if it meant that Bruce had the perfect right to demand for his pound of flesh afterwards, even if he wouldn’t be able to look at Bruce without feeling the knife near his heart, ready to carve, he had to ask. 

“Thank you,” Ramona whispered. “For asking. For coming her. For telling me.”

Each word was a nail that reached past his invulnerable chest to scratch deep grooves into his too-fragile heart. Clark squeezed his eyes shut. Swallowed.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

He wanted to promise her that he would solve this, but it wouldn’t be him. He wanted to tell her that he would keep her safe, but it wouldn’t be him who would do it. He could only hold her like this, and pretend he was doing something worthwhile.

“It’s nothing,” he repeated. 

Tomorrow, he would talk to Bruce.

***

For the past month and a half, Arthur and Diana had been coming to the construction site for the headquarters once every week or so, and they had left marks of their presence in the foundation stones set into the soil, outlining where the main building would be. Barry and Victor came a little more often, and they had carved themselves out in the land with a giant hole covered by tarp that would eventually become the underground hangar.

Clark had left nothing. Clark had barely visited the site long enough to leave imprints of his feet on the grass.

Ironic when Bruce had come up with the idea of the team building the headquarters themselves to try to appease him. To try to assure Clark that the team was something that could belong to him instead of something that was just bought and paid for by Bruce. 

It didn’t matter, Bruce told himself, kneeling on the grass to put together the generator he had brought here using the helicopter that was now idling at the edge of the plot. He knew better than to expect anything from Clark; he didn’t deserve to, after all that he had done to the man. Reviving him, buying his parents’ farm, ensuring that he had his civilian identity back, building the headquarters; none of that could even chip at sheer debt he owed Clark for attempting to kill him. None of that could alleviate the weight of the guilt on his chest. 

But he had thought, foolishly perhaps, that Clark would hold enough affection and meaning to the team itself to put aside what he felt for the Bruce. That he didn’t despise and resent Bruce so much that he would endanger their hopes of saving the world by not doing anything to contribute.

The soft whoosh of wind being caught on smooth cloth. A quiet _thud_ of a foot landing light on grass. _Think of the devil_ … Or was it to think of a god? Bruce exorcised the thought and did not turn around.

“Bruce,” Clark said. “I need your help.”

He was speaking very quickly, Bruce noted. As if he was forcing the words out before he lost the will to say them. 

Slowly, Bruce removed his hands from machine guts. He wiped his fingers on the grass blades before rocking on his heels. He ignored the creak of his knees as he turned around. “That’s a coincidence,” he said. “I have a favour to ask of you as well.”

Clark blinked. He cocked his head to the side. “ _You_ do?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, careful to keep his voice level and blank instead of dry. Swallowed back Bruce Wayne’s joke of _even a man richer than a god would have some things he can’t do_. “But what is it that you need?”

Opening his mouth, Clark closed it. He sighed and scratched the back of his head. “It’s… it’s a long story,” he said. “Have you heard about what’s happening in Metropolis?”

“A lot can happen in a city,” Bruce pointed out. “What exactly are you referring to?”

When Clark didn’t elaborate immediately, his eyes slowly growing unfocused as if he was turning his attention inwards to try to formulate the correct words, Bruce bit back a sigh. He gave Clark time, walking the short distance towards the foundations that Arthur and Diana had built and sitting down on one of the jutting sides that would eventually become the main building’s walls. It was, he told himself, not a hint to Clark about what he should be doing whenever he came here. He folded his hands atop his knees and waited.

“Recently,” Clark started. Then he blinked as if he just realised that Bruce wasn’t in front of him anymore, and floated the couple of metres forward until he was in front of Bruce. He kept hovering in the air as he spoke, “Recently, a man came to Metropolis. His name is Bruno Mannheim, and he’s starting what looks a lot like a crime syndicate.” He paused, and then shook his head. “I said recently, but it’s more that he has been here for nearly a year, because he already has established himself to set up…” He trailed off.

“To set up brothels,” he continued, practically forcing out the words. “Staffed by people he trafficked from… Well, I’m guessing Eastern Europe, but I _know_ that one of his sources is Romania.”

Sionis and Mannheim likely had contacts to the same human trafficking ring, Bruce noted. Something for the Bat to investigate once he was back in Gotham. He also noticed the stuttering way in which Clark was approaching the subject of organised crime, of the deep and dark underbelly of humanity where the ugliest people lived. He wasn’t surprised by it. Superman wouldn’t have a lot of experience dealing with such things; the powers of a god weren’t exactly suited to street-level crimes.

“I have heard,” Bruce said.

“There’s a girl I met,” Clark continued. “Not like, like this,” he gestured to his uniform, “but as myself. As Clark Kent. I asked her for an interview.” He bit his lip, and, in a single smooth motion, folded his legs, stopped hovering, and sprawled down on the grass. “Even if I write an article that busts Mannheim’s operations, Ramona – that’s her name – won’t have a place to stay. And I… I checked out the village where she came from, and her family is poor and their farm is failing.”

He tipped his head up. His gaze skittered over Bruce’s face before landing an inch to the left of his jaw. “I’m wondering if there’s anything you can do to provide her with a refuge.” 

Ah. Clark wasn’t asking for the Bat’s help, but _Bruce Wayne’s_. Despite all that he had said, despite his obvious discomfort, _now_ he needed Bruce Wayne’s money and influence. Bruce nodded, and felt his shoulders curve inwards into a slouch, his hands loosening their grip on each other as his arms relaxed until his elbows were on his spread thighs with his fingers hanging down on level with his ankles. 

Relaxed. Indolent. Far more suited to a frivolous CEO with some talent in business than to… to whatever Bruce was when he didn’t have a name to fit himself into.

“Organised crime has been a problem in Gotham for a long time,” he said. “The usual policy to help those freed after their captors’ arrests is to send them back home. But I suppose it’s high time that a separate branch of the Wayne Foundation is created to help those,” he paused, searching for the right word, “survivors to find a place in America, if that’s what they desire instead of going home.”

“What?” Clark blinked. “No, I’m— I’m not asking for something so elaborate. Just… just maybe a job in your company, entry-level. Something that will allow her to get a work permit and earn enough money to send to her family, and maybe bring them here in a few years once she had saved up enough…” He trailed off again, scratching the back of his neck.

Bruce cocked his head to the side. “Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why just her?” Bruce asked, genuinely curious. “If I start up a branch for the Foundation, she will receive aid along with—”

“It’s too much trouble,” Clark interrupted him. “I can’t ask of you something like that. All I’m asking you for is to find a job for her so that she could find a better—”

“The reach will be far greater with an organisation,” Bruce pointed out. “There will be people who will check up on her circumstances to ensure that she’s not being taken advantage of by her new employers and her work permits get renewed whenever she needs it to. Plus, if there is trauma left from her experiences, the Foundation funds a lot of psychiatrists and therapists who can be tapped in—” 

“You don’t need to make everything so _complicated_ ,” Clark insisted. “Look, all those things, I can do for her. I can check up on her and—”

“And then what?” Bruce cut him off, already impatient with this argument. “What can you do, if her colleague or her employer find out about her background and decide to fire her because of it? What if they decide to take advantage of her? Is Clark Kent going to call the union for her sake? Is he going to write an article to expose her colleague and employer and humiliate her by spilling out her shame for the whole world to gawk at? Is Superman going to pay them a visit? What—” 

“ _I’m not going to let you own Ramona_!”

Clark was standing now. No, Bruce realised as he got to his feet as well – he was _hovering_ , floating a few inches above the ground so that he could loom over Bruce even as Bruce straightened to his full height. He was breathing hard, eyes wide, as the echoes of his shout rang out around them.

“Look, it’s just,” Clark started. Stopped. He took a deep breath to visibly calm himself down, running a hand over his hair. He didn’t get back on the ground. “You don’t get it, Bruce. I just… I want her to— to build a life for herself, here. To feel like she… she owns something. That she belongs here, in this country. Some organisation coming in isn’t going to help with that.”

“Build a life,” Bruce repeated. “Own something. Belong here.” He took a deep breath. He was trying to not be angry, but Clark always did this to him. Reached his hand past his ribs and squeezed his heart until everything he thought he had hidden deep within came spilling out all over his hand. “You come here, you come _here_ , Clark, and you tell me that.”

“What?” Confusion shone bright in those blue eyes.

Bruce barked a laugh, bitter enough to rasp across his tongue as it escaped. “Take a look,” he said. “Do you think I could’ve done all this by myself? Do you think I could’ve made all this happen,” he waved to the foundations, the tarp-covered hole, “by flinging money at it? You talk about building something to own it, Clark, and I gave you a chance with these headquarters. And you have done _nothing_.”

Clark opened his mouth, but Bruce wasn’t done. “And what makes this girl so special, Clark? Is it because you found her? What about the replacement that Mannheim is surely going to find to take her place? Is _that_ girl not worthy of being helped, because she hasn’t the privilege of talking to you?” He was being unfair. Clark didn’t know how things went with things like this. 

But Bruce wasn’t thinking about that like now. Rage bubbled up inside him, hot and scorching in his back, running down to tear at the back of his throat until the Bat’s growl snarled out, “You fucking _selfish_ _hypocrite_.”

“Oh,” Clark said. “Oh, so that’s how we’re going to do this.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Okay, fine. How about this, Bruce? You have all these ideas about this organisation of yours, but it doesn’t exist. If I haven’t brought Ramona up, you wouldn’t have thought of it, have you? Twenty years in Gotham, and only now you think that there are people who come here who might want to stay? You want to just send them away because then they won’t be your _problem_ anymore, and you can go back to beating up and branding criminals because that’s what you _like_ doing.”

Bruce stifled a flinch at the reminder of the brand. Clenched his hands at his sides tight enough to feel his nails dig into his palms.

“What about you?” he hissed back. “You want to save just this one girl because it’ll be an _ego trip_. If there’s an organisation, then you can’t claim to be the one who saved her. Then you can’t look at her and pat yourself on the back and say that, yes, you saved this one, it’s to _your_ credit and no one else’s, and no one but you could’ve done it.”

Clark stepped back, his eyes widening and face twisting as if he was in pain. In that moment, he looked exactly like he had when he was under Bruce’s heel. The only thing missing was the green glow.

Swallowing, Bruce forcibly relaxed his hands from their tight clench on each other. He had gone too far. What was it that Clark had said? That he knew that Bruce wasn’t a bastard? He wished that proving Superman wrong felt as satisfying as he once thought it would be. 

He should have just stayed in Bruce Wayne’s role and spoken to Clark like he did to those board members; should’ve stayed calm and appealed to Clark’s particular brand of logic until he saw Bruce’s point, or until he got tired of the argument and gave in or just left and picked up the argument another day, and Bruce could wear him down gradually until he saw his point.

 _Sorry_ , he wanted to say, but it was too paltry, too trite. He squared his shoulders instead and deepened his voice into the Bat’s growl. But it was the Bat who had tried to kill Clark, so he didn’t lift his head. “I offer a trade,” he told the grass. “One favour for another.”

Clark’s feet landed on the ground. “What do you want me to do?” He sounded tired, wrung out. Bruce wasn’t surprised: without his masks, without his roles, all he could do was to hurt and destroy those unlucky enough to be around him. 

“I need you to threaten someone enough that they won’t ever think of doing something again,” the Bat told Superman. “His name is Roman Sionis, Gotham’s version of Mannheim, except much better established.” He paused. Looking at Clark carefully from the shield of his half-lowered lashes, he continued carefully, “I need you to put the fear of God into him.”

“No,” Clark said. When Bruce jerked his head up, he saw Clark’s eyes were wide with horror. “No, I— I can’t do that, I can’t—” 

Jerking his head up, the Bat shook his head. “You don’t have to hurt him,” he said. “Just talk to him. I can provide you with a script.”

Clark shook his head. His hand trembled as he ran it through his hair. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I can’t. I— I can’t— Not like that, I can’t, _no_ —” He turned away, and flew away so quickly that even the Bat had to stumble back from the sudden gust of wind and press on his ears to muffle the sonic boom.

Bruce stared at the spot where Clark had been standing, the Bat falling away now that there was no point for him. He could call Clark back. He could tell Clark about the weapons that he found on Sionis: kryptonite to take down Superman, nanites in those white capsules meant to attach to the visual centres to the brain to cause hallucinations that could easily be used on any member of the team.

But Clark hadn’t even cared enough to drop by to help with the construction for the team’s headquarters; hadn’t even attempted to address that point when it was brought up. Bruce could understand a message when it was that obvious: Clark would much prefer keeping himself apart from the team.

Scrubbing his knuckles over his face, Bruce let out a breath. He went back to the half-built generator. He stared at it and wondered if Clark would even allow himself to use electricity in the headquarters once it was done. 

If it was going to be done. If Clark would even come here again after this.

He knew better than to hope. He had never managed to craft a role that could do it convincingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say that Clark and Bruce are making progress, but at this point, it’s more like two steps forward and three steps back because they’re both complete disasters right now. _However_ , the next chapter is the turning point.
> 
> This is the [map of Metropolis](https://i.imgur.com/QH0hUFC.jpg) that I’m using. (Yes, I’m very obsessive about settings and accuracy of detail.) Descriptions of Suicide Slums are cobbled together and adapted from various places in my memories.


	4. scaffolding (the shape)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightwing appears in Gotham. Superman has a conversation with the Flash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Barry Allen and Dick Grayson appear in this chapter. Otherwise known as: this fic actually has humour, guys, and the angst isn’t always unrelenting. Also, this chapter is incredibly long.
> 
> (Also, yes, I accidentally posted this last night before I fully run through it. I'm sorry for any false hopes I raised.)

“— _no, Barry, I can’t do my coursework without using my powers_. Is he trying to say that I’m being dishonest if I use my powers to finish my own stuff on time? Is it trying to tell me to manage my time better? Am I overthinking things?”

There was, Clark thought, very obviously someone already present at the construction site of the headquarters. Down there, within the massive hole that had been covered by a piece of tarp that was now carefully set to the side.

He grabbed the corner of his cape and flapped it out, letting the cloth catch the air and make as obnoxious as noise as possible. 

“—probably overthinking things, because not everything is about you, Allen, and you need to stop that. He’s probably just answering your question. Or, you know, telling you something about himself because you asked him about it—”

Stepping over to the side of the hole, Clark looked down. “Barry—” he tried to call out.

“—need to figure out how to respond to people properly when they’re telling you about themselves! Making interested hums doesn’t seem to work like it does in the shows. Is it because my pitch is wrong? Sarah asked me if I was choking the last time I did it—” 

Maybe louder? He tipped his head back, and made his voice sonorous enough to echo. “Barry—”

“—a handbook for this kind of thing. Why are people so weird? Why don’t they make sense? Why does brunch exist? Why am I thinking about brunch again? Did I bring food this time?”

Giving up, Clark took another step and allowed himself to float down into the bottom of the hole. When he was in range, he tapped Barry on the shoulder.

And Barry _shrieked_ and immediately leapt back from him, becoming nothing more than a series of sparks that fizzled out against the soil surrounding them. It took a few moments before he coalesced back into solid form, though he continued to vibrate. Barry’s mouth was open and he held his shovel in front of him like he was going to try to brain Clark with it.

Clark held up both hands in a universal gesture of surrender and tried to give a reassuring smile. It was a little difficult to meet Barry’s eyes when he was vibrating like that, so Clark matched his speed so that he could do it properly.

After a few more moments, Barry cleared his throat. He lowered the shovel. “You scared me,” he explained rather unnecessarily. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Uh, Clark? Why are you vibrating?”

_Because you did it first_ , Clark almost said, but realised that it likely would sound utterly juvenile. He tried to smile wider. “It’s makes me dizzy if I look at you when you’re vibrating while I’m not,” he said instead. It sounded better, even though it was kind of a lie. Clark wasn’t entirely sure if he _could_ get dizzy without the influence of kryptonite, but a normal person would, most likely. It made for a good explanation, anyhow.

“Sorry,” Barry said, and thankfully went still. Clark stopped as well. They stared at each other for a moment before Barry scratched at the back of his neck. “Anyway,” he cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

Clark waved a hand upwards, gesturing in the general direction of the construction site and its scattered materials. “I came to help,” he said. 

Though the answer sounded trite and flat even in his own head, it was better than saying, _Bruce said a bunch of things and I’ve been obsessing over them, and I kind of want to prove that he’s wrong about all of them and this part is the easiest to start with_. Mostly because Barry wouldn’t know what it was that Bruce had said, and Clark didn’t want to explain.

He took a deep breath. “Anyway, Sarah?”

“Oh, you were listening?” Barry blinked. When Clark nodded, he ducked his head, laughing self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, I babble a lot. It’s like you turn on a switch and I just don’t stop talking and I’m doing it again aren’t I?” He sucked in a huge breath. “Uh, anyway, Sarah’s someone at work.”

_You have a job?_ Clark almost asked. He swallowed it back in time because it was insulting, and he really should know that Barry was working, and also what his job was. (Maybe Bruce was right about Clark deliberately isolating himself from the rest of the team—

No. It couldn’t be. If Bruce was right about that, he might be right about everything else. And he couldn’t be. Clark believed that, and he would make it true. Starting from right now.)

“Work, huh?” he tried to give a chuckle, but couldn’t really meet Barry’s eyes. He noticed instead that Barry was wearing his Flash uniform, and there was streak of dirt all over the red. Either he had been digging for a while, or he was messier than even such menial labour warranted.

While Clark was stuck in his head, Barry had been speaking. “—scientist,” he said. “At the crime lab of Keystone’s PD.”

“Oh,” Clark said. He realised that he didn’t exactly know how to respond when people told him about themselves, either. Superman usually pulled out some pithy lines about how people should continue working hard, or if they were having some troubles, he would tell them that they were brave and should continue being so. 

“That’s nice,” Clark heard himself finish lamely. Maybe he should’ve gone with the platitudes. 

Barry laughed, streaking soil over his cheek as he scratched at his jaw. “It’s kind of a crappy job, to be honest,” he said, shoulders bowed inwards and self-deprecation practically pouring out of him. “I mean, I love it, and I can’t believe I actually have a foot in the door to a crime lab, but I’m pretty much a glorified janitor and errand boy at this time.” 

His eyes flicked up to Clark for a moment. “Not that I’m complaining or anything. It’s expected, you know? I’ve never finished college – I’m taking classes now but that’s not the same as actually having a degree – so, honestly, I wouldn’t have gotten the job if Bruce hadn’t had someone put in a word for me—”

“ _What_?”

It took Clark two seconds to realise that the too-loud voice was his own: the word had forced itself out of his throat before he even realised its presence. And now Barry was staring at him again, wide-eyed and looking even more surprised than he had when Clark tapped him on the shoulder. Clark took a deep breath.

“Bruce… got you your job?” He tried to make the question sound like a reasonable one, born out of curiosity. He had a feeling he didn’t succeed.

“Yeah,” Barry said. He cocked his head to the side. “Not sure if it was Batman or Bruce Wayne who did it, but one day – less than a week after the whole Steppenwolf thing – I got a call from the head forensic scientist at Keystone – his name is Harrison, Dr Harrison Wells – and they asked if I’m interested in an interview because they had a vacancy open for an entry-level position at the lab—”

Barry, Clark realised, didn’t just babble. Barry flung out entire narratives, practically full-fledged stories, instead of answering a question directly. He spoke with buried clauses and sprawling run-on sentences that seemed to be related to the question at hand only tangentially. If Clark was here to interview him, he would’ve been the best subject because of the information he freely gave, or he would be the worst because it would be nearly impossible to sift through the unimportant information to find the relevant bits. 

But Clark wasn’t here as a reporter. So, really, he was just getting a headache. Or, well, the ghost of one, like his head knew that it should be hurting but his physiology didn’t exactly allow for such a thing to happen.

Slowly, Clark held up a hand. When Barry stopped talking, breathing in sharply, he gave the younger man a smile. “I’m glad that you have a job that you like,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, but since Bruce already knew and he had already blurted that question to Barry… There was no harm in asking, right?

“It doesn’t bother you? That you wouldn’t have this job if not for Bruce?”

_Thud_. The shovel’s metal blade dug deep into the ground. Clark blinked, and he realised that Barry’s eyes were narrowing, his head tilting to the side. He opened his mouth, about to take the question back, but then Barry was darting forward and his hand curled around Clark’s wrist. 

“Clark,” Barry started. Then he realised that Clark was staring at their point of contact. He pulled away. “Uh, I’m almost done here for the day, so… meet you on the upside? There aren’t chairs, but Arthur’s started on the walls, so there… is somewhere to sit? Better than here, in the dirt, with us getting our clothes dirty?”

_I don’t want to sit down_ , Clark wanted to tell him. _I don’t want to talk. I just want you to answer my question, and then I can get to actually helping with the construction and forget that this had ever happened_. But there was an undefinable look in Barry’s eyes, and all of the words were stuck in Clark’s throat. He nodded instead.

They went up together – Barry running along the sides of the hole, Clark flying – and landed on the side. Barry pulled off his cowl, revealing dark hair slicked to his forehead by sweat. “Gimme a couple of seconds,” he said. Before Clark could reply, he had gone and returned, now carrying a giant bag that crinkled with plastic. He flashed another smile, the corners weird and uneven, before he headed over to the skeleton of the main building.

It looked more complete than the last time Clark had noticed it, and messier at the same time. Steel beams bracketed the foundations, some of them scattered on the floor, others bound together by cable ties, and four designating what would become the corners. Barry led him around what would likely be the front entrance to the back, towards one specific steel pillar that had bricks piled around it.

They sat down. Barry pulled out a packet of crackers from his bag and opened it. He popped four of them into his mouth at once and started. Clark had the brief idea that he should say something to break the strange silence that had settled between them. But he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I’ve been learning a lot since I’ve started running around in this outfit,” Barry said. When Clark looked at him, he swallowed, and shrugged. “It helps a lot, to have a uniform. To have a name. People know you by it, and you become familiar to them.” He shoved a few more crackers into his mouth. “So, it becomes easier for me to not just… run away again right after I pushed someone out of danger. Easier to… stay, and talk to them.”

Clark nodded. He had no idea where this conversation was going. He had the feeling that he had lost control over his interaction with Barry the moment he tapped him on the shoulder.

“When I first started, people were so weird to me,” Barry continued. “I mean, they’re still weird. There’s a lot I still don’t get. But, you know, I’ve figured out something. There’s a look on some people’s faces whenever I talk to them, and they get that look when the fix I’ve gotten them out from – a mugging, a traffic accident, whatever – is like, at the very _bottom_ of the list of their problems.”

He finished his packet of crackets and dumped it back into his bag. Drawing up one of his knees, he looked at Clark for a long moment. “What I’m trying to say, Clark,” he said, and his voice had grown softer. “I can tell that something is bothering you, and I… I’d like to think that we’re friends, and you can talk to me about it?”

Tangents. Barry talked in tangents. It was just the way he was. Clark reminded himself of that again because it was tempting, far too tempting, to think that Barry deliberately talked like that to distract him and lull him into a sense of security before springing a trip. Not everyone laid traps with their words. Not everyone pretended to help but instead hurt him through stabbing their words into his face.

Not everyone was like Bruce.

Clark tried to smile. “Nothing is really bothering me,” he said. “I’m Superman, remember?”

“Really?” Barry blinked. “I didn’t realise that. I thought that,” he flapped a hand towards Clark’s uniform, “is just a really well-made t-shirt.” He paused, and his eyes went wide. “Oh my god, I sounded exactly like Victor. I’ve been hanging around him too much. Sarcasm _is_ contagious.”

“I should—” Clark started to get up. He stopped because Barry had a hand on his wrist again. Clark could hear the slick slide of the oil from the crackers being repelled by the cloth of his Superman uniform.

“You know,” Barry started, eyes far away. “Bruce actually offered me something more than just a recommendation.” He had that smile on his face again, the one where the corners looked strange. “He offered the recommendation, and also said that he could give me the proper qualifications; could make it look like I went to Harvard or MIT or SUNY or anything I choose. He could even get me records and pictures of me participating in extra-curriculars that I’ve never even _heard of_ , find me college stories to tell people so that the fake degree and fake years in college sound real.” He paused. Shrugged. “And then he said— his reasoning was that I obviously had the skills and the knowledge, and it was just a piece of paper.” 

The glazed over look had disappeared from his eyes, and he tipped his head back to look at Clark. His smile was very wry as he continued, “Bruce is kind of fucking insane.” 

Well, _that_ Clark could certainly agree with. Still— “Why didn’t you take it?” he asked. It would’ve certainly made Barry’s life easier. He wouldn’t be stuck as a “glorified janitor and errand boy,” like he had put it.

“Wouldn’t have been real,” Barry said. He let go of Clark’s wrist, leaning back against the steel pillar. “It’s my dream job, but it wouldn’t be _my_ dream job if I hadn’t put in the work for it.”

“But you still…” Clark trailed off. How could the job still be _Barry’s_ if it was _Bruce_ who helped him get it?

“Yeah,” Barry nodded. “It bothers me, a bit. I can’t stop thinking about how there might be other guys like me, guys who want to a job that they just never had a chance to get the proper qualifications for. And how those other guys probably never got hit by lightning, never had a chance to meet Batman, and that it’s just… an accident that I did. That I got lucky.”

Clark opened his mouth. _That’s not the reason_. He closed it. No, that wasn’t _his_ reason, and he really should stop projecting his issues on everyone he talked to. “But?” he prompted.

“It’s the way that Bruce put it,” Barry said. “I practically drowned him in my babbling and my spit telling him about how much I _don’t_ want a fake degree, and I almost refused the recommendation even though there would be no chance of me getting the job without one. But he…” He shrugged. “He said that me accepting him putting in a word would be… a favour. That I’m doing him.”

_What_? “How does that even work?” 

“He can’t stand seeing someone stuck in dead-end jobs when they could be capable of far more, apparently,” Barry said. “That if he doesn’t do something, it would bother him forever.” 

Suddenly, Clark remembered: Bruce standing outside the farm he had returned to Mom, shoulders hunched inwards and hands in his pockets, eyes staring straight ahead. _I made a mistake, that’s all_. Guilt in his voice, heavy and thick. Clark had been too preoccupied by the fact that Bruce had bought a _bank_ as a _reflex_ to think much about that answer, but…

But those words had been part of Bruce’s explanation, hadn’t they? A _reflex_. Something that Bruce was doing, entirely on his own accord. Nothing to do with Clark. He was helping Clark, helping Mom, but he dressed up his own intentions as nothing but selfishness. 

Thing was, Clark had always known that Bruce never wanted Clark to feel like he owed him something. Like Clark had said the first time they spoke in this too-large plot of land, he knew that Bruce _wasn’t_ a bastard. That he wasn’t the kind of person who thought he could buy or sell people with the money he had. Even before he overheard that board meeting, he knew that.

Because if Bruce had been, he would’ve sent an army against Clark instead of fighting him by himself. Would’ve made other people die for his sake instead of running a suicide mission. But Clark still… it was still…

He thumped his head hard against the steel behind him, taking care to not dent it. “I don’t know why it bothers me,” he told Barry very quietly.

Plastic crinkled, crackled. “That Bruce got me my job?” Barry asked, sounding confused. “Why would that bother _you_?”

“No, uh,” Clark flapped a hand. “He, uh, he bought a bank. My family’s farm was taken over by a bank, and so Bruce bought the bank so he could… uh… give my Mom the farm back.” He slid his eyes over to Barry and quirked his lips up into a wry smile he didn’t exactly feel. “Yeah. I know what you’re talking about when you say that he’s crazy.”

“Hah,” Barry said. He was munching on a sandwich now, lettuce leaves poking out of the corner of his mouth. Clark let him chew while his thoughts ran circles around his mind, chasing their own tails like multiple, intersecting ouroboros. 

“So,” Barry continued finally, finished up the sandwich and licking his fingers. “I was staring at this place, and I thought of… a metaphor.”

“A metaphor,” Clark repeated, blinking at him.

“Yeah,” Barry said. “It’s like… Bruce showed us the plans for this place, but he never actually told us what he wanted each of us to build. Just that it needed to be, and a series of steps. And so, when I first came over, I actually had no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do.” 

He dumped the paper and plastic of the sandwich’s wrapping back into his bag and turned to Clark with a smile brighter than the ones he had given to him. “Then I realised that, hey, I don’t have the strength to put in foundations or anything, _but_ I’m fast, and I know how to dig holes.

“When I met the others, it’s like… they went through exactly the same thing?” Barry was looking at him, waiting for a response. Clark nodded. “Victor has his canon, so he worked on the underground hangar with me. Diana has speed _and_ strength, so she could move the foundation stones. And Arthur has this weird amazing ability of his to pull the groundwater up – you should really see him do it, it’s _awesome_ – to make the cement mixture into proper cement and…” 

Clark didn’t know _any_ of this. Was Bruce right, after all? That Clark had been isolating himself from the team that was said to be his, and therefore never claimed ownership over it at all? That he was purposefully _wallowing_? 

“It’s like this place,” Barry continued, spreading his hands out and shrugging. “We didn’t discuss about it but… there are some things that each of us can do, and we do it. To contribute. To help.” He paused. “Bruce’s part is money and hardware, as far as I can tell.” He chewed on his lip. “Actually, now that I’ve said it out loud, this metaphor sounds kind of belaboured, and I don’t know what I’m comparing anymore.”

Unfolding his legs, Clark stood up. He gave Barry less than a second of reaction time before he was walking, heading towards the site of the underground hangar. Ignoring Barry’s calls for him – “Clark? Uh, Clark, where are you going? The hole? Uh, what are you going to do—” he jumped down to the bottom. Kicked against the soil to test it.

Barry was beside him, staring at him anxiously. Clark reached behind his own neck and pulled off his cape, draping it over Barry’s head. Then, before Barry could jerk the cloth away, he flexed his own fingers, grabbed the shovel with one hand, and _punched_ straight down with the other.

Soil exploded around them. Barry yelped, and Clark grabbed him by his biceps and settled him down to the new depths of the hole. He took his cape back, ignored Barry’s incredulous stare, and started scooping the loose soil up with the shovel. After a couple of seconds, Barry found another shovel from somewhere, and joined him.

Once the ground was smooth and flat again, Clark floated up aboveground. He flung the shovel away and dropped to sit on the edge. He stared downwards and said, almost conversationally, “I still want to punch him in the face.”

“Oh,” Barry said. “That’s what you were doing?”

“Why is it so hard for him to talk like a normal person?” Clark asked rhetorically, staring up to the side. “For him to just say, ‘Clark, I’m trying to help you, how would you like me to do it?’ It’s a _goddamned sentence_.”

“Uh,” Barry said. “I don’t know if you noticed, but literally no one on our team is actually good at talking.” When Clark slanted his eyes to him, Barry shrugged with both hands raised at his sides. “I babble, Victor is either monosyllabic or sarcastic, Bruce either makes sale pitches or talks like a PowerPoint presentation – pretty much the same thing, actually – Arthur is the living embodiment of the Old Spice ad – unless he’s sitting on the Lasso of Truth, oh god, don’t tell him I actually told you that—”

“I won’t,” Clark said automatically.

“Diana…” Barry trailed off. “Diana is a goddess who walks on the earth with us mere mortals and is exempt of every rule.” After a moment, his brows furrowed. “Is it a guy thing to suck at talking?”

“Do you think _I_ suck at talking?” Clark asked, because he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re really good at making speeches but I genuinely don’t know if you’ve ever had a conversation in your life,” Barry blurted out. After a moment, he pressed a hand over his mouth. “Shit, shit, that was insulting, I’m _sorry_ , I mean, you came back from the dead, you probably have—” He trailed off, staring.

Clark didn’t blame him. If the guy he just insulted ended up laughing, and laughing hard enough that he was flat on his back and practically convulsing, he would’ve stared too. Clark pressed his wrist against his mouth, but it was actually kind of hard to stop. He took a breath, two.

“So,” he said, turning to look at Barry. “Bruce talks like a PowerPoint presentation?” He actually… had never experienced that.

“You know, when he offered the whole fake degree thing?” Clark nodded, and Barry’s lips twitched. “He made _slides_.”

That just set Clark off again. And, this time, Barry joined him, high-pitched near-giggles blending in with the sound of Clark’s deeper laughter. And Clark couldn’t help but think of that moment after the Mother Boxes had been separated, Victor laughing with him. All they were missing was Diana’s exasperated comment about working with children.

“I am,” Barry said, “ _so_ glad that you’re not pissed.”

Shaking his head, Clark sat back up. He noticed that his cape was pooled somewhere between him and Barry, so he picked it up, pinned it back on, and used that as an excuse to scoot a little closer. “I’m not,” he said, completely honest. “Because you’re right.”

Like Bruce had been right. About Clark isolating himself. About Clark wallowing. Clark still wasn’t sure _why_ he had been doing it, couldn’t put his finger on it. But… he was getting there. He was closer to figuring it out, now.

Turning to give Barry a small smile, he shrugged. “I don’t really have friends.”

“ _Really_?”

“Yeah,” Clark said. It was true: he had people in the _Planet_ , but he was still the new guy before he died, and afterwards… he had been afraid to go beyond small talk in case he gave away inconsistencies about the story about being under witness protection. He had his Mom, and he had Lois, but neither of them really counted as _friends_.

When he realised that Barry was staring at him again, even more bug-eyed than the previous times, he waved a hand and turned his smile wry. “My powers came in when I was a kid,” he said. It was oddly easy to tell Barry that. “After that, it’s… Well.” He shrugged again. “A lot of stuff happened. I didn’t exactly have time.”

“My god,” Barry breathed out. He smacked a hand over his face. “That makes exactly _zero_ members of this team that have a functioning social circle. Who actually has _friends_.”

“That’s not true,” Clark pointed out. “We have each other, don’t we?”

Slowly, Barry dragged that hand down his face. He peered at Clark over his fingers. “Uh, Clark,” he said. “I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but… you just went back to sounding like a Hallmark card.” 

Clark’s lips twitched. “I thought I sounded like I was making speeches?”

“Your paragraphs are speeches and your shorter lines are like Hallmark cards,” Barry told him. The sides of his eyes were turned up, giving away the grin he was futilely trying to hide behind his hand. “Also, your one-liners when fighting sound like they are written by Ian Fleming. _Super_ cool.”

Despite himself, Clark laughed again. “I’m glad you approve,” he said. “Even though you’re basically saying that I don’t ever sound like myself.”

If Clark was being honest with himself – and since he was on a streak of it, he might as well continue – he wasn’t even sure what _himself_ sounded like. Was it when he was talking to Mom? When he was talking to Lois? He would have liked that, because the alternate was when he was talking to Bruce, and—

Oh god. The things he said to Bruce. When Bruce had been trying to help. Even if Clark still felt the bile nudging at the back of his throat, that undefinable yet undeniable _rejection,_ at the thought, Bruce… probably didn’t deserve anything of what he said. 

Sighing, he stood up. He glanced at Barry. “I’m going to finish putting the beams in,” he said. “Start off the scaffolding. You want to help?”

“I’m not that strong,” Barry pointed out.

“You probably have a better grasp of physics than I do,” Clark pointed out. When Barry started shaking his head, he quirked a small smile. “Or, well, you have the plans with you, right? That’ll be helping, too.”

“Or I can talk at you while you work,” Barry said, half sounding like he was grumbling and half making a genuine suggestion.

“Sure,” Clark laughed. He headed over to the skeleton of the main house, bending down to pick up one of his steel beams and slinging it over his shoulder. “That helps with letting me practice talking.” 

Barry caught up quickly enough, his strides slowing down as he walked next to Clark. His warmth and heartbeat were a steady presence.

It was funny, Clark thought as he followed Barry’s directions about the placement of the beam. That a person could miss something that they never had, and yet didn’t know they missed it until it was returned to them.

***

There was a streak of anomalous blue on top of one of the condominiums under renovations in Stevensburg, overlooking Chinatown on the downtown island. Behind the cowl, the Bat narrowed his eyes. He tapped a few buttons on the panel on his forearm, sliding lenses down over the eyeholes and focusing them on that spot.

The radio crackled in his ear just as he recognised the figure. “Master Richard told me that he will be visiting the city, sir,” Alfred told him. “On official business for Bludhaven’s police department.”

Dick. Dick was here, in Gotham. For the briefest of moments, the Bat flickered, shifting dangerously into disappearance. Then he took a deep breath and solidified himself, pushing away all other presences that tried to take his place. 

“An officer visiting should not lead to the vigilante’s appearance,” he snapped. “He’s risking his cover.”

Nothing came to the Bat’s ears for the moment except for Alfred’s short huff of breath. Then the older man said, voice very dry, “I do not have a telepathic connection with Master Richard, sir. If you find the warning important, you should deliver it yourself.”

Up on half-demolished building, Bludhaven’s protector had not moved from his spot. As the Bat watched him through his focused lenses, Nightwing tilted his head, his gaze shifting inexorably towards where the Bat was tucked behind the water tank of a building three blocks away. That answered the Bat’s unformed question about whether Nightwing had been keeping his senses and reflexes sharp quite well.

“Fine,” the Bat said, biting back a sigh. “Inform me if there is any news coming over the police scanners. I’m switching off the mic.” Then, with Alfred’s quiet, “Noted, sir,” in his ear, he shot out a grapple onto the next building, and swung through the air towards that streak of blue.

His feet had barely landed on the edge of Nightwing’s chosen meeting place when the younger man spoke, “I was starting to think that you’re going to pretend to not see me.” 

“What are you doing here?” the Bat demanded.

Nightwing didn’t turn. “I didn’t lie to Agent A,” he said, using the name he had given Alfred; a name that seemed more like an affectionate nickname rather a codename to avoid being overheard and exposed that he had once stated it to be. “A perp escaped into Gotham, and I came here to arrest him.”

“Description?”

“Don’t bother,” Nightwing said. “He’s already behind bars, ready for transport back into ‘Haven. Made my report to both commissioners, too.” Pausing, he leaned back onto his hands. The raven on his chest – a shimmering, sapphire-like blue that stretched its wings from one shoulder to another – caught the dim moonlight that streamed through the heavy clouds and smoke of the Gotham night. “I’ve been in the city for three days.”

Despite himself, the Bat froze, his hands stilling from where he was tucking his grapple gun back into his belt. Three days. Three days ago, the Bat didn’t exist in Gotham, because Bruce Wayne had been in Metropolis, finalising the details of the purchase of the lot that would soon become the headquarters of the Bat’s team. 

He hissed out a breath. “Does Agent A know?”

“Only since nineteen hundred hours today,” Nightwing replied. “I told him right after I made my reports.” His lips curved up into a small, humourless smile. “Didn’t want either him or you to have any illusions about why I’m here.”

Slowly, the Bat stepped over the construction materials strewn over this particular rooftop to stand next to Nightwing. Below them, the streets were empty, silent. He folded his legs and dropped down to sit on the edge, heavy boots knocking against tarp-covered steel beams.

“Why are you here?” he asked quietly.

“To talk to you,” Nightwing said. Tension seemed to seep out of him the moment the Bat had sat down, but he still clenched his hands together. “It has been enough time, hasn’t it?” 

The last time they had spoken, Nightwing didn’t exist. After that particular conversation, Dick Grayson had moved out of his guardian’s residence to live on campus at the Gotham Police Academy. Alfred had told the Bat that Dick had requested for a posting in Bludhaven instead of Gotham after graduation.

“I miss him too, you know,” Nightwing said.

That had been seven years ago. After Jason’s funeral.

Sliding his fingers over his forearm, the Bat made the lenses of the cowl retreat, and switched off the safeguards he had built into the thing. He tapped a few more buttons to ensure that any surveillance pictures taken of the place would be scrambled into unrecognizability, and all audio taken would be distorted.

Then he reached up and pulled the cowl back. 

As he blinked at the feel of the cold night air on his bare skin, he felt the Bat retreat to the back of his mind. It was Bruce who turned to look at Dick. Though Dick’s eyes were still shielded by the white lenses of his mask, his shock could be read from the suddenly-straight lines of his shoulders, his parted lips.

“Is this about the board meeting?” Bruce asked. 

“No,” Dick said. After a moment, he reached up and peeled his mask away from his face. He dragged fingers through his hair, loosening it from Nightwing’s strict, slicked-back style. “I… Are you going to leave if I tell you that I don’t really know why I’m here?” He lifted his head and finally met Bruce’s eyes. “Only that I… I wanted to come?”

Seven years had carved thin crow’s feet at the sides of Dick’s eyes; had dug faint creases between his brows. Seven years had meticulously cut away the hints of baby fat, leaving only sharp bones that curved into the strict lines of a jaw. Seven years had changed the boy that Bruce had once known into a grown man with his own worries and cares.

But his smile was still lopsided, and the blue of his eyes still bright. He was still familiar, despite all of the reasons he should be strange. 

“I,” Bruce’s voice died. It was tempting, so tempting, to pull the Bat’s cowl back on and switch back to talking business. To tell Nightwing that he had no place in Gotham because it didn’t need two vigilantes to guard it. Bruce hissed out another breath through gritted teeth and pushed the urge back. Dick deserved more than the Bat. Even if Bruce didn’t know what he could give him, he deserved more than a mask, a false face.

He looked down at his hands. “I haven’t given you much reason to want to.”

Their last conversation hadn’t been pleasant, to say the least. Both of them broken and bleeding on the inside from Jason’s death, Dick’s eyes wide with horror as he watched Bruce put Jason’s desecrated uniform into the glass case. He had tried to convince Bruce to not do it; had tried to talk to him about facing his grief, about healing and moving on.

They ended up screaming recriminations to each other, blaming each other and themselves for Jason’s death. The sounds of their voices echoing in the Cave, but still far too weak to erase the stench of Jason’s blood that clung onto the ruined uniform, that lingered on both of them.

When Wayne Manor was destroyed a year later due to Thomas Eliot’s efforts, Bruce lost all physical remnants of the years he had spent with Jason and with Dick there. All he had left was the stench of blood that never left. All he could hold on to were the ruins of a Manor that had stopped meaning anything to him long ago. 

“Shouldn’t need to have a reason to drop by,” Dick said. He drew one knee up to his chest, resting his wrist on top of it. “Especially on anniversaries.” Resting his cheek on his elbow, now, his smile faded. “Would’ve stopped me from going on drinking binges on those particular days.”

Bruce’s mouth went dry. He swallowed and barely managed to croak out a, “What?” 

“It’s hard to smile nowadays,” Dick said, voice so quiet that Bruce could barely hear him. “It’s hard when I don’t have anyone to smile for anymore.”

On his tongue: the bitter, sharp tang of alcohol. In his throat: the weight of pills washed down by whiskey. _You’re not the only one who is breaking down,_ he heard. _You’re not the only one going through the motions_. 

He pushed the thought away, because this was about Dick instead of himself. It didn’t matter and had never mattered what happened to him; he had always been prepared to be hurt and to suffer and to die and to live for his city, for the world. But for _Dick_ to…

His hand was hovering in the air, and Dick was staring at it. Bruce had faced down gods and monsters, had their hands around his throat and on his chest without feeling fear. But he still had to gather his courage before he could cross that final distance and put his hand on Dick’s shoulder. Before he could squeeze, very lightly, and keep his eyes open at the hitch in Dick’s breath.

“You could’ve come back any time you like,” Bruce said softly. “You don’t need any reasons, any excuses.” He swallowed again. “I should’ve told you that years ago.”

“Maybe,” Dick said. His gaze flicked away to stare out to the streets. “But I don’t think I would’ve. Don’t think I could’ve.” Before Bruce could speak, before the knife of Dick’s words could fully sink into his chest, Dick shook his head. “You weren’t okay, and I… I couldn’t figure out a way to help you. It would’ve… it would’ve killed me to stay. To watch and know that I can’t do anything to help.”

It would, Bruce knew. Dick had said, in the beginning, that he wanted to be trained, wanted to be Robin, because he needed to take revenge for his parents’ deaths. But even then, Bruce had known it for a lie: Dick had a pathological need to help people, to save them – from others, from themselves, it didn’t matter – and it crushed him whenever he couldn’t.

His smile had always been brightest when he had made Bruce smile as well.

That was why Jason’s death broke him. Bruce had always known. Dick had tried so hard to save Jason, to ease that rage within him. 

“I don’t know how Alfred does it,” Dick continued. “It tore me apart, reading the news about the Bat starting to brand criminals.” His smile softened at the edges at Bruce’s involuntary flinch, and he shook his head. “I thought of coming back, then. But I couldn’t think of anything I could say, anything I could do, to make you stop. And I didn’t want to watch.” _I didn’t want to see you,_ Bruce heard.

“What made you change your mind?” Bruce asked.

Dick huffed out a breath that edged towards being a laugh. “You,” Dick told him. “That team of yours that saved the world. Building headquarters.” He paused. “Then you brought dandelions to Jason’s grave. You’re thinking about him again.”

“I’ve never forgotten,” Bruce said. He couldn’t.

“Never said you did,” Dick said, his knuckle nudging against Bruce’s forearm without pushing at it. A facsimile of the teasing pokes he would give when he was younger. “More like… you’re thinking about Jason like he had been when he was _alive_. Not… not just about his death. Not just about his death, or how he died.”

Bruce blinked. _I haven’t spent the last seven years thinking about Jason’s death_ , he wanted to protest. But he already knew that wasn’t true. He had a glass case in the Cave that reminded him of Jason’s death. He had spent the past seven years thinking of Jason in terms of his own failures: how he couldn’t help him, couldn’t save him, and, after he died, he still failed him because he couldn’t help others like Jason, couldn’t ensure Jason’s legacy was carried out in the way he would’ve wanted it to be.

Jason had been dead for more than twice the amount of time Bruce had known him, but that wasn’t the excuse, either.

“I keep thinking about what I want to bring when I go,” Dick said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it even when I was working. But I still can’t think of anything.” He gave Bruce another lopsided grin. “You took the best idea.”

“He never liked presents,” Bruce said softly. “Never liked to be given anything.” The first night Bruce had brought him home, Jason had slept on the floor of the bedroom he had been given. When Bruce had asked why, he said that it was too cold for him to sleep in the garden. He hadn’t had any words to explain why he wouldn’t want to sleep in the bed.

“It used to piss me off so much, that part of him,” Dick shook his head. He was smiling again, looking at Bruce with his head the arms he had resting on his drawn-up knees. “You know, I keep thinking I should give him books. But I think he’d be pissed off with me if I tried to burn books at his grave.”

“Mm, he would,” Bruce said. After a moment, he closed his eyes. Thinking of Jason still hurt like a burning knife sinking into his heart. Like a brand pressed hard against the skin. “You never had a problem with presents, though,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah,” Dick said. When Bruce slid his eyes over to him, Dick shrugged. “But, you know, it’s not the same.”

“What isn’t?”

“Where Jason and I started off,” Dick said, lips lifting into a crooked smile. When Bruce continued looking at him, waiting for an elaboration, he rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. “I told Jason a story, once, about my days in the circus.” He paused. “That was one of the first times when Jason got _really_ angry at me.”

“I’ve never heard of this,” Bruce said.

“He didn’t want me to tell you,” Dick said. “It’s… I don’t remember the details of the story I told, but it was about one of those parties Tony used to throw for my birthday. Jason didn’t even want to hear the rest of the story once I hit that part.”

“Why?”

“You know, the circus was never rich,” Dick said. “We lived from hand to mouth most of the time. Jason figured that out even when I tried to not tell him.” He took a deep breath. 

“But Tony always tried to have parties for the kids in the circus, even when the finances were in the red. And…” He rubbed at his mouth. “Jason didn’t get why Tony would do that. Why Tony would bother. He said…” His voice hiked up an octave, imitating Jason’s pre-puberty pitch. “ _It’s fucking unfair to the ones actually working that you get parties and they don’t when you don’t do shit to earn the money being spent._ ”

Pieces gathered over the years fell into piece. Bruce blinked. _Ah_ , he thought.

( _So, Dickie is too old to play dress-up with you, and you need a replacement? That’s why you took me in? To work for you?_

_Work_ with _me. And that’s not the reason._

_C’mon, you don’t need to lie. I know how things go. But yeah, I’ll do it. I’m good at punching people._ )

__Jason had eased up about living in the Manor, about gifts, after he took the mantle of Robin. Bruce had always thought that it was because the role gave him a purpose; gave him something he could do to help people without relying on asking Bruce for things the orphanage might need. But… but it seemed that there was another reason, too.

“You should’ve told me,” he said.

“I couldn’t,” Dick refuted. When Bruce looked at him, he was staring at his own hands. “It’s… I had a hard enough time to get him to trust me. If he found out that I told you something that he said to not tell you, he wouldn’t have ever talked to me again.” He rubbed at his mouth again. “I didn’t want that. I…” _I loved him, too,_ Dick didn’t continue but Bruce heard anyway.

Slowly, he undid the clasps on his gauntlets. Shoved them over to the side so that he could use his bare hands to run his hands over his sweat-soaked hair.

Seven years since Jason had died, and Bruce was still finding more about him. Realising the limits of his knowledge and understanding when it came to his own son. It wasn’t surprising. Without his masks, outside of his roles, Bruce wasn’t a person. Couldn’t do anything but hurt and destroy those around him, those he loved the most. Couldn’t ever save them.

Jason had taught him that. Jason most likely hadn’t wanted to teach him that, would’ve gotten mad at Bruce at laying the idea at his feet, but he _died_ and—

Looking out at the streets, Bruce exhaled a breath that shook despite his best efforts. He scrambled for a change in subject.

“Well,” he said, “he would’ve been twenty-two this year.” He had imagined, through the years, what Jason would have looked like once he was grown. Now he stepped carefully away from that thought. “Maybe you can read to him those books that you kept trying to hide from him.”

Those that Dick had used to keep under his bed in the Manor; those that he once shouted at Jason for finding, screaming about _it’s my room_ and _invasion of privacy_ while Jason pointed at him and shrieked with laughter.

Dick’s head jerked up. “Wait,” he said, drawing out the word. “You knew about those?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you tell me that you know?” Bruce lifted the other eyebrow. 

Slowly, Dick’s head dropped back into his arms. “Oh my _god_ ,” he moaned. “It’s not just my little brother who found my porn collection, but my _dad_ knew about it too.” He thumped his forehead against his knee. “Why did I even try to delude myself that you didn’t know? I lived in the same house as _Batman_. Privacy is like cereal to you; you don’t even believe in it. Oh my _god_.” 

There was a strange feeling at the base of his chest. A hitch of air that tasted less bitter than shock, a gentle almost-sweetness that was the antithesis of rage. Bruce tried to swallow it back, but it wrenched out of his control and escaped his throat. 

“I’m not going to read Jason porn at his grave, Jesus, Bruce,” Dick was continuing, spiralling down into his usual tangents that somehow still adhered to the topic at hand like he usually did. “That’s the worst idea ever. You’re the worst.”

It was an unfamiliar sound. Coarse, barely more than a rasp. It took Bruce a few moments to realise that he was _laughing_. That his cheeks hurt because his lips were curved up into a smile.

Dick was staring at him. Bruce lifted a hand, but he hadn’t had time to press his knuckles against his mouth to shove the laugh back before Dick was scrambling to his feet and practically flinging himself forward, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s neck. Startling and unexpected as the move was, rusted as his instincts might be when it came to this, Bruce’s arms were almost immediately around Dick’s back, his thighs spreading to envelope Dick’s body in his own as he embraced him and kept the two of them from falling off the rooftop.

“Hey,” Dick said, his voice half-muffled against Bruce’s shoulder. “Hey, Bruce. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve always been here,” Bruce said, even though he knew that wasn’t what Dick meant.

“Not really,” Dick said. “You’ve always been here, like this.” His knuckles knocked on Bruce’s shoulder. Then he lifted his head, and his smile was so, so wide. “But not here.” He tapped the side of his own eye, then his temple. Hesitating for a moment, his fingertips tapped, very lightly, on Bruce’s chest, right over the symbol of the Bat. Right over Bruce’s heart. “Not here.”

Bruce closed his eyes. Exhaled. “Haven’t had much use,” he said. A terrible explanation, he knew, but it was the best he could give.

“Yeah, I get that,” Dick said. Even through the armour, Bruce could feel the warmth of his cheek as Dick pressed his face into his neck. “Like my own smiles. Though you really always go to the extreme.”

Even after seven years, Dick could still read him. Bruce shouldn’t be surprised but he was. He was, and perhaps that was better, because he couldn’t – _couldn’t_ – take Dick for granted. He learned that when Dick left and didn’t come back.

They stayed like that for a while. 

“You know,” Dick said eventually, straightening slightly so he could meet Bruce’s eyes. “I know better than to think that I’m the one who brought you back.” He shook his head before Bruce could protest. “You don’t have to tell me who it is, but can you tell them that I’ll _gladly_ set up an altar for them to worship their awesomeness?”

Despite himself, Bruce winced. He scrubbed at his own face. “That,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “would be a _very_ bad idea.” 

“Huh?”

Dick didn’t know, Bruce reminded himself. Dick had never met Clark, had never spoken to him, and that was entirely on Bruce. In fact, Dick probably didn’t mean what he said, was being hyperbolic, but…

“He has enough comparisons to God to deal with already,” Bruce said. It sounded better than _the last time I mentioned God and him in the same sentence, he literally ran away from me_.

“Wait,” Dick said, creases slowly forming between his brows. “Are you telling me… are you saying… that it’s _Super-Jesus_ who gave me my dad back?”

That was the second time Dick used that word to refer to him. Bruce silenced the insistent screeching in his head – he would deal with it later – to stare at him? “Super-Jesus,” he repeated, and really hoped that Clark wasn’t listening in.

Dick rubbed at the back of his neck. The movement pulled his body away from Bruce’s, and Bruce restrained himself from tugging Dick back into his arms when Dick didn’t try to come back himself. “Uh,” Dick said. “That’s how my partner refers to him. You know,” he flapped a hand in the air, “sent here from another world, explodes into public view for saving the world.” He paused. “And that’s before the whole dying for the world while said world was trying to picket him. You… have to admit that there are similarities.”

“I try to not think about it,” Bruce said, dry. “Working with a guy who can fly is difficult enough without thinking of him as Jesus.” Then, before Dick could freak out about Bruce _working with_ Superman – he could see it there, right at the corner of his mouth – he asked, “Partner?”

“My partner in the police department,” Dick said. He squinted at Bruce. “She’s married with kids and is possibly the only person in the world who would ask me if I’m cold if I appear in front of her with my shirt off.”

Bruce had almost forgotten how disorientating it was sometimes to talk to Dick. He was getting a very rapid reminder right now. “Why would you want to appear in front of her without a shirt?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“It’s a hypothetical situation,” Dick said. “A metaphor.” He flapped his hand again. “I’m not talking about this with you. I’m pulling the porn collection clause. Let’s talk about something else. Like Super-Jesus.” He slapped a hand over his face. “ _Superman_. Jesus. I’m going to kill Amy.”

“Porn collection clause?” Bruce asked. He had a sense that he was sounding like a broken record. Or a parrot. He didn’t know which one he preferred.

“You know. The whole thing about not talking about your sex life with your parents?” Dick said. “I thought it was something you already understood, since you never brought up the porn collection thing.”

In fact, Bruce had never brought it up because he didn’t know how to and had, in fact, convinced himself that it was irrelevant. He had even foisted off telling Dick about sex to Alfred, because he had figured that a PowerPoint presentation about different diseases and ways in which sex could be used as a tool for an abuse of power wasn’t entirely what sexual education _meant_.

That wasn’t important. Bruce took a deep breath. “That’s the third time you said that,” he said, voice soft.

Dick trained under him. Dick _knew_ him. So, it wasn’t a surprise when Dick didn’t look confused; that humour drained out of his face to be replaced by a wary smile. “Yeah,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I had… I had seven years to think about it, and I mean it.”

“I never—” _wanted to replace your parents_.

But Dick didn’t let him finish: he was already shaking his head. “You didn’t,” he said. “They gave me so much, and I’ve kept plenty.” He drew his knees up to his chest again, staring at them. “But… you know, I get into danger a lot. Police officer.” He shrugged. “Sometimes when I get into a fix… Before I think about ways to get myself out, before I think about how to signal my partner to come get me… I always, always wish that you were there.”

He swallowed. The sound was very loud. “I know I was the one who left. And, you know, I don’t _really_ want you to bust in to save me. And I… At first, I thought that if I come running back to you, you wouldn’t help. You’d look down on me instead.”

Bruce’s throat had closed up but he was shaking his head. 

“Yeah,” Dick whispered. “You’d help, right? If I ever get into a fix that I can’t pull myself out of, if I ask… you’ll help, right?”

_Breathe_ , Bruce told himself. He swallowed hard, feeling jagged edges pressing at the back of his throat. “I,” he tried. Another breath. “I would. I will.”

Dick smiled. Tremulous as it was, his eyes shone so, so bright. “Yeah,” he said again. “That’s why you’re my dad.” 

This time, Bruce refused to be a coward; refused to wait. He practically lunged forward, grabbing Dick by his shoulders and pulling him in, pulling him _close_. Wrapped his arms around Dick, crushing him against his chest. And Dick was hugging him back, his hands buried into the folds of Bruce’s cape like he used to do when he was a child, like he used to when he had just woken up from a nightmare to Bruce holding him, still in his armour.

_My son_ , Bruce thought, the vehemence of his own mental voice surprising himself. _My son_.

“Come home,” he said instead. “You don’t have to stay. But come home for tonight. Stay.”

Dick nodded, his face pressed into Bruce’s shoulder. “Tomorrow,” he said, voice cracking. “Come with me to visit Jason?”

Bruce closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft.

“Alfred should come, too,” Dick said.

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded again.

“I still don’t know what to get Jason,” Dick said. “He’s going to be so angry at me because I didn’t visit for so long, and then when I do, I don’t bring him anything. And if I get something he doesn’t like, he’s going to be angry with me again.”

Jason was dead and he wasn’t capable of getting angry ever again, Bruce knew. But he knew, too, what Dick meant. Knew that Dick was talking, spilling out words, because he was feeling too much and all of the emotions were crammed tight in his chest and he had to exorcise them somehow. 

Closing his eyes, Bruce pressed his hand gently into Dick’s hair. When Dick made a sound and clung onto him tighter, he stroked his fingers through the strands.

“We’ll think of something,” Bruce said, voice soft. “Alfred can help us figure it out.”

“Mm,” Dick said. “Alfred’s good at that.”

This time, Bruce didn’t try to stifle the smile. He shifted the hand in Dick’s hair to the ground – placing his elbow light on a shoulder because he didn’t want to break contact entirely – scrabbling for the gauntlet before he managed to switch the microphone back on.

“Alfred, I’m coming back in,” Bruce said. Part of the usual protocol when patrol ended. Then, swallowing, he forced himself to continue. “Dick is coming back with me.”

There was a brief silence. “Understood, sir,” Alfred said, his tone brisk and business-like. “I will set up one of the guestrooms for Master Richard, then.”

Guestroom. Because Dick had never stayed at the lake house. Even though the place had two extra rooms that had never been touched, no matter how many ‘guests’ Bruce had ever had during the time he had stayed there. He closed his eyes.

“I’ll show Dick to his room later, Alfred,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

He could feel Dick’s eyes on him. Could feel the weight of his surprise at there being a room specifically for him at the lake house. He couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t find the words. 

Turning his head, he pressed a kiss to Dick’s hair before he could convince himself not to. Seven years of separation should allow them this, at the very least.

Dick’s knuckles dug into the back of his ribs, hard enough to be felt even through the armour. Dick’s breath shuddered out of him, almost too loud. When Bruce opened his eyes, Dick was looking at him, and he was still smiling with his eyes so bright.

Leaning up, Dick projected his voice towards Bruce’s left ear, where the earpiece and microphone were. “Hey, Agent A,” he said. “I know I can’t hear you if you reply, but I just wanna say hey anyway.”

Alfred’s returning laugh was the warmest Bruce had heard his voice in several years. 

“Come on,” Bruce said. “Let’s get back.”

Nodding, Dick shifted back as they stood. Bruce pulled his cowl and gauntlets back on, and Dick tugged on his mask. But Dick still remained close enough that his shoulder brushed Bruce’s bicep as they headed over to the roof’s edge. They didn’t speak as they threw out their grapple lines.

Just as Bruce stepped off into the air, his earpiece crackled again. “There’s something I’d like to say now that you won’t fret about Master Richard seeing your reactions,” Alfred said. 

“What is it?” Bruce said, and threw out another grapple in the direction of the car. Behind and beside him, Dick somersaulted in the air, his grin bright beneath his dark mask.

“For what you have said and done tonight to bring Master Richard home…” Alfred paused. 

“I’m very proud of you, Master Bruce.”

It was only long-honed instincts that allowed Bruce to not stumble as he landed on a rooftop. He rolled forward anyway, and barely managed to give a nod to Dick to alleviate his worried look. 

Alfred hadn’t called him by that title for years. Ever since Jason had died, ever since Bruce had put up the glass case, Alfred had called him _Master Wayne_. A separation. A distance. Bruce hadn’t protested; had thought, justifiably, that he had deserved it.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you. I hope that I manage to live up to it.”

To the name and the lack of distance it implied. To the potential hurt and suffering and pain that Alfred was risking by allowing himself to get this close to Bruce again when Bruce destroyed and ruined everything he touched.

“C’mon,” Dick said. When Bruce turned to him, he realised that Dick was already standing on the opposite edge of the rooftop. “Hurry up, B. I need to see what that glass monstrosity that you live in now looks like from the inside.”

_B_. Another name he hadn’t gone by for years. A name that Jason had given him, because he thought _Batman_ was too long to use when they were out on the streets; a name he had persisted in using even when Bruce pointed that two syllables were not anything close to _long_.

Taking another breath, Bruce caught up with his son. He jumped down from the building and flared out his cape, letting it glide him in the direction of the car.

“It’s not a monstrosity,” he said once he had landed, head tilted back to look at Dick. “It’s the height of modernist architecture.” 

Dick snorted as he landed on the balls of his feet, rolling forward and standing with the easy, liquid grace his acrobat parents had taught him. “Yeah, that’s just the very _definition_ of ‘ugly,’” he said. “You’re just proving my point.”

Bruce pressed the buttons on his gauntlet that started up the car. Once they were settled in and he had gotten over the visceral strangeness of having someone occupy the passenger seat, he said, “Keep insulting my house and I’ll throw you out of the car and walk back.”

“That’d be more convincing if you’d said that _before_ I got in,” Dick pointed out. Then his hand stopped scrabbling at the corner of his seat. “My god, B, you don’t have a seatbelt. You can get arrested for that.”

As he peeled out of the alleyway into the main road, Bruce slid his eyes over and gave Dick his most incredulous silent stare.

“I can’t help it!” Dick threw up his arms. “I’m a police officer! It’s my job to check for this kind of thing.”

“Traffic laws?”

“Every rookie cop goes through the traffic beat,” Dick shrugged. “Been a few years, but I still remember.” He settled more into his seat. “Anyway, I was thinking. How do you not get a sunburn inside your own house with all the glass? Like, seriously. The glass is _everywhere_.”

Bruce could tell him that there were mechanisms built in to keep out the light – and prying eyes – when necessary. He could also say that Dick could find out in the morning, once he had explored the place a bit more. There was also the option of telling Dick to not ask stupid questions.

Instead, he said, “That’s easy. The sun doesn’t come out in Gotham.”

There was a _thump_ as Dick smacked his head against the plastic back of the passenger seat. Bruce didn’t need to turn his head to know that Dick was staring at him with his eyes wide and mouth open. It took a few seconds, but eventually Dick snorted, and that just started him into bursts of laughter, loud enough to set him convulsing where he sat.

“That is—” Dick gasped out. “ _Such_ a terrible joke, oh my god, your sense of humour is still _utter bullshit—_ ” __  
  
Bruce didn’t bother hiding his smile. He chose that answer for a reason.

It was nice to know that he could still make his son laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 10k words. They’re getting longer. FML.
> 
> Timeline: Jason was adopted when he was twelve and Dick was sixteen and Bruce was thirty-five. Jason died at fifteen, Dick left after that at nineteen, and Bruce was thirty-eight. Now Bruce is forty-five, Dick is twenty-six, and Jason has been dead for seven years. Given that there is no sight or sound of Dick for both _Dawn of Justice_ and _Justice League_ , and a lot of the former is about Bruce’s spiralling into self-destruction, it’s not inconceivable that Dick and Bruce have been estranged for that entire time. 
> 
> My characterisation of Dick is based on that. In a world without the Titans, without the Outsiders, without the League, and without Tim, Dick _only_ has Bruce and Jason and maybe Barbara. Once Jason died and Bruce isolates himself, Dick was pretty much alone. You take a cheerful, optimistic person who genuinely believes in helping people, make him unable to help the two people most important to him with one of them dying, leave him isolated from genuinely close relationships for seven years… and you get this Dick Grayson. Who is a broken and damaged and mourning, but still with a brightness deep within him that still can be found.
> 
> In case it’s not clear by now, this is not a fic in which Clark and Bruce save each other. It is one in which they _don’t_ , and that’s _exactly_ why they end up being together.


	5. mortaring (the joints)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark Kent pays a social visit to Bruce Wayne’s lake house. Matches Malone deals with information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** The second scene is from Matches Malone’s POV. Hence: detailed depiction and discussion of prostitution and human trafficking and their associated misogyny and trauma and dubious consent (on both Matches’s end and Bella’s). Also, some pretty massive mood whiplashes throughout the chapter.

The gates to the Wayne estate were made of black metal bars tipped with spikes, and they loomed above Clark’s head for a good six feet more. There were no visible locks, and the intercom at the side was half-rusted and specked with water stains from the constant Gotham rain. The only sound Clark could hear was the whirring of the camera above his head, and the soft laps of water from the lake. 

Maybe coming here on his bicycle had been a bad idea. Especially if there wasn’t a way he could actually get in through the front door. Clark stretched his hearing out a bit further. He could hear Bruce’s heartbeat – slow and steady and inexorable – coming from the lake house. Alfred was there, too, and… one more. One that was entirely unfamiliar. Clark blinked.

He hoped that wasn’t one of those people that Bruce Wayne was known to sleep with. There was a pretty good chance, actually, given that the heartbeat was near the vicinity of what he knew to be the lake house’s doors.

Nothing for it. Clark pushed his bike closer to the gate. He stabbed on the intercom. Despite how old it looked, the buzz was very loud, and the rush of the current down the wires sounded strong. 

“Bruce Wayne is not home,” a bored-sounding and unfamiliar voice stated after the beep of the call being picked up. “Please contact him through the Wayne Enterprise office or the Wayne Foundation—”

“I know that he’s here,” Clark interrupted. He tipped his head up to look straight into the camera high above, because he could tell that was the real one while the blinking light on the intercom was a fake. “I, uh, I know him?”  
_  
_ “Who are you?” The voice changed, sounding sharper. “Look, I can see your press pass from here.”

“Uh, I just came from work?” Clark said, tugging at the lanyard of said pass. He usually had it around his neck, and he had forgotten to take it off when he decided, on a whim, to bike his way to Bruce’s house instead of flying. “I actually know him, so, uh—” 

“You haven’t answer—” there was a scuffle, a yelp. A far more familiar heartbeat joining the strange one.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce’s voice, demanding. “Why are you using the _front door_?” Now he sounded mystified.

“I biked here,” Clark said. He shifted slightly to the side so that his bicycle could be seen by the camera. “And I don’t want to leave it outside because I like this bike.” It was one of the few cheaper ones he could find that could accommodate his height and weight without the tires going out every couple of days.

“That’s not—” Bruce said, and then cut himself off, sighing. Then there was a clear _beep,_ and metal shifted as the gates started to open.

As Clark jumped back on his bike to ride into the estate, he could hear mutters coming from the lake house: “—not used to him using the front door, knowing him, those shoulders, I know those shoulders— _oh my god_ — B, you still don’t tell me anything important—” 

He arrived at the front door of the house just as someone stumbled out of it. It was a young man in his twenties – Clark couldn’t figure out his exact age – and he had on a leather jacket and dark jeans, and a motorcycle helmet was dangling from his right hand. He was also staring at Clark with his eyes so wide that they seemed to be bugging out.

“ _Superman_ rides a bike?” he yelped. “Not a motorcycle-bike, but an actual bicycle-bike?”

Clark swung off said bike next to the young man. He stuck out his hand and tried for a friendly smile. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Clark Kent.” He paused. “I don’t have a motorcycle license?”

A hand flung up into the air, nearly clipping Clark on the jaw. Clark dodged so the stranger didn’t end up breaking his fingers. “You can _fly_.”

“It’s very suspicious if I head into my office through the rooftop every day,” Clark pointed out. He waggled the hand he still held in mid-air, and watched with his lips twitching as the man stared at it before taking it. “And you are…?”

“Dick,” Bruce’s voice came from the house. He was leaning against the doorframe of the front entrance, arms crossed. “It’s six thirty.”

“ _Shit_ ,” ‘Dick’ swore. He grasped Clark’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Hi, I’m Dick Grayson. I’m a detective at Bludhaven Police Department.” He let go and started to turn. “I’m also Bruce’s kid, in case he never tells you about this fact, and I’m going to be late to the pickup of a perp I spent three goddamned days arresting and if he escapes in that time _two_ police commissioners are going to have my head so I’m going to go now bye it’s nice to meet you Superman drop by ‘Haven some time I’ll give you a tour—” 

The last sentence came out in a fading rush as Detective Dick Grayson of the Bludhaven PD, Bruce’s son, sprinted towards what looked like the lake house’s garage while shoving his helmet onto his head. Clark stared after him for a long moment, blinking.

“I didn’t realise that there are other people who talk as fast as Barry does without having super-speed,” he said.

“That was him trying to slow down,” Bruce said. He pushed away from the doorframe and turned his back, but not before Clark could see a hint of a smile tugging on his mouth. “You’ve been talking to Barry?”

Locking his bike, Clark followed Bruce up to the house. “He helped me put the scaffolding in for our headquarters,” he said. After a moment, he shrugged. “Or, well, he pointed out where we should put them using your plans, and then I did it.”

Bruce stopped walking. As Clark watched, his shoulders slowly stiffened, all of the looseness that – Clark suspected – Dick Grayson’s presence had brought fading away. “You… were at the headquarters?”

“Figured that it’s long past time that I started pulling my weight,” Clark said. He tugged at the lanyard, rubbing over the rough material for a moment before he pulled it over his head. “Since, you know, I’m going to make use of it too.”

“Was it something I said?” Bruce’s voice had gone completely empty and blank again.

Clark considered prevaricating. Then he remembered that he actually came here looking for Bruce, entirely uninvited, into Bruce’s space, and doing that would be counterproductive for his presence. He took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, you said a lot of things. So, specifically that part about me still isolating myself from the team.” 

He tried to shrug, but it probably came out as a twitch instead. Not that Bruce was looking at him. “You’re right,” he continued. “I’ve been wallowing.”

 _Now_ , Bruce turned around, and there was something on his face that looked like he was in pain. “That’s not what I—”

“I never knew you had a kid,” Clark cut off whatever he was going to say, because he knew that if he let Bruce say it, they would head down the road of talking in circles again. Or, worse, throwing accusations at each other. Then he considered what he actually said, and amended, “Or, well, I knew because it was on your Wikipedia page,” in the short _Personal Life_ section that came after the very, very long part about _Philanthropy_ , “but… you never mentioned it.”

Bruce’s breathing was still steady, but Clark could hear the rattle the air made in his lungs. His face went blank. “We haven’t spoken for a while,” he said. “It… wasn’t relevant.”

Clark blinked. “A while like… ever since, uh,” he made a vague gesture in the air meaning things falling from the skies, “or…?”

“Seven years,” Bruce said. He lifted his eyebrows. “I am perfectly capable of screwing up my own life without you being involved, you know.”

Opening his mouth, Clark held out a finger. He closed his mouth, let the finger drop, and tilted his head. His eyes narrowed. “Was that… meant to be a joke?” he asked carefully. “Because I don’t think self-deprecating humour works that way.”

“When did you become an expert in humour?” Bruce asked, crossing his arms.

“I never said that I was,” Clark pointed out. “I’m just saying that if that’s a joke, it’s a _weird_ joke, and,” he paused. “Yes, yes, I know that me labelling something as strange is even stranger, because I’m an alien.”

“That’s not,” Bruce started. He clicked his mouth shut, and breathed out through his teeth. “Do you really think that’s how I see you?” He waved a hand towards Clark. “Is that why you came here dressed like that, and using the front door? To prove to me that you’re _human_?”

Five minutes – less than that, actually – and they were already back to flinging accusations and recriminations. And, this time, Clark couldn’t even deny that it was him who started it. That it was his fault that Bruce’s spine was straight as a board, that his shoulders were tense, and he looked half a second away from clenching his teeth tight enough to lock his jaw muscles.

Clark exhaled. “I came here to apologise,” he said, choosing his words more carefully this time. “I’m not doing a very good job of it, I know. And I… I came here dressed like this because the last times we’ve spoke, I’ve been in uniform, and none of those conversations had gone well.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s… kind of… a metaphor for making a new start?”

“When did you start talking in metaphors?” Bruce asked, and he was back to having actual emotion in his voice.

“Uh, _you_ speak in metaphors?” Clark pointed out. “The whole headquarters thing? Letting everyone contribute, and the building of it becomes a metaphor for the building of our relationship as a team?”

“That’s not—” Bruce cut himself off. He smacked his hand over his face. “That’s called a _teambuilding exercise_. How did it become a _metaphor_?”

“What Mister Kent means, sir, is that you are opaque and difficult to read,” Alfred’s voice cut in to interrupt the two of them. “Your preferred mode of communication is through actions that you believe to express a certain set of intentions but, in fact, are symbols that are either completely incomprehensible, or can be so easily misinterpreted that you might as well have not attached any meaning to them at all.” 

Bruce was glaring at Alfred over the tops of his fingers. For a brief, hysterical moment, Clark was reminded of a teenager glaring at their parent for embarrassing them. He hurriedly stifled the laugh that wanted to burst out of him. Swallowed.

“I have never heard a more eloquent way of saying, ‘You really suck at talking at people,’” he said. His gaze shifted to Alfred. “Thank you.”

“While you’re feeling gratitude, sir, would you mind moving this a conversation elsewhere?” Alfred said. He looked around pointedly. “You’re blocking the hallway.”

Belatedly, Clark realised that they were standing in what he figured was the corridor that connected the entrance hall to the living room. 

“Some of us have actual work to do,” Alfred added.

Clark tried to awkwardly shuffle to the side. Then he realised that it didn’t matter, because it was _Bruce_ who was standing in Alfred’s way. And that he and Alfred had their eyes locked on each other’s, having an entire conversation through the stares.

Maybe, Clark thought, Bruce was so bad at talking because the one person that he always interacted with didn’t actually need him to open his mouth to know what he meant. He remembered what Dick Grayson had said, _I’m also Bruce’s kid, in case he never tells you about this fact_ , and thought that maybe it was also because the people around him knew him well enough to predict him.

Which could mean two things: either Bruce actually had known how to communicate in the past, and had simply lost the skill over time, or that it was only with Clark – and maybe the team, but mostly Clark – that he simply didn’t know how to talk to. To be honest, neither option appealed to Clark. Because there was a third answer, something that he couldn’t grasp right now.

While he was stuck in his own head, Bruce and Alfred had managed to come to a conclusion to their silent battle. Alfred had evidently won, because Bruce muttered, “I get no respect in this house,” and crab-walked to the side. Clark had to stifle an entirely inappropriate giggle at the sight.

Alfred nodded to him as he headed out of the house. Clark smiled and resisted the urge to ask him to stay, because Alfred clearly had better things to do with his life than to play translator or peacemaker between two grown men. No matter how tempting it was to beg Alfred to do it anyway because the last few times Clark had been with Bruce had ended up disastrously.

“Come on,” Bruce said. “I have work to do, and we can talk in the Cave.”

What had Alfred said again? Symbolic actions? Was there one here, too? A gesture of trust, that Bruce was allowing him into the Cave? Or was it instead a denial of Clark’s intentions in coming here out of uniform, because he was bringing him down to the realm of the Bat, and Batman only had dealings with Superman?

Clark had the feeling that, if had been capable of it, he would be having another headache. Bruce seemed to bring that out in him. The most sensible option was to leave, and only talk to Bruce when it was necessary. Like, world-ending emergencies necessary.

The problem with _that_ was, of course, that his feet was already following Bruce towards the entrance of the Cave, and there was nothing Clark could do to convince them otherwise. 

When he was surrounded by metal and concrete instead of metal and glass, Clark picked up a chair and unfolded it near to Bruce’s workstation. And Bruce just stood there, eyes fixed on whatever gadget he was planning to fix for the day, just waiting for Clark. Clark stared at his own hands, realising that his fingers were linking and unlinking without his permission, and sighed.

Might as well just get to it.

He took a deep breath. But instead of what he had planned and rehearsed to say, the words coming out of his mouth was, instead, “I can’t do to Sionis what you asked of me.”

Bruce didn’t turn around. “Why?”

“You want him to be afraid of me,” Clark said softly. “I can’t do that. I can’t…” he swallowed again, staring at his hands. “My powers shouldn’t be used for that kind of thing.”

“Why?” The same flat tone. The same expressionless face in profile. “He’s a criminal. All that Mannheim has done in Metropolis pales in comparison to what Sionis has done to Gotham.”

“He’s human,” Clark said. “He’s a person.” He flexed his fingers so he wouldn’t give into the urge to clench them. “If I make a choice to cause fear…” Lois’s joke, so casually thrown out: _Not even if you take over the world and enforce your rule upon all of us._ Clark’s hands were starting to shake. “I can’t do it, Bruce. I’m sorry.”

Metal clattered on metal. Footsteps. Clark turned his eyes up just in time to watch Bruce step in close, crossing the invisible bubble that Clark had always kept around himself. “That’s not true,” Bruce said, his voice so soft that Clark’s hearing ratcheted up to catch his words. “When we fought, you were doing your best to make me afraid.”

 _I wasn’t_ , Clark wanted to protest. _I just wanted you to stop trying to fight me_. _Even after you threw the Kryptonite, I was holding back_. But none of those answers would be addressing Bruce’s point. None of that would be denying that Clark had wanted Bruce to be afraid; that he had kept on fighting even when Bruce had backed off. Even if it was just so that Bruce would stop fighting him, he had wanted Bruce to be scared. 

Besides, he wouldn’t be fair if he answered that way. Bruce had never brought up their fight – his attempted murder of Clark, as he would put it – without a good reason. He deserved a good answer.

But. “I’m sorry,” Clark muttered, burying his face into his own hands. “I just can’t do it. Don’t ask it of me, _please_.”

Bruce’s hiss of breath was very loud. “Fine,” he said. “I won’t ask it of you.” _Not fair,_ Clark thought petulantly. Bruce could at least sound _angry_. He could at least give away some kind of emotion.

“I’ll just look for another way to make him stop,” Bruce continued.

“Is there one?” Clark blurted out before he could stop himself. He lowered his hands, taking in the stiffness in the lines of Bruce’s shoulders. “You… you wouldn’t have asked this of me if you’d already thought of alternatives, right?”

Clark might have known very little of Bruce, but what he knew was this: Bruce was far too used to working on his own – Alfred notwithstanding – and he never asked for help. The existence of the team was an anomaly born out of extenuating circumstances, after all, and they knew well enough to keep out of Gotham.

“It’s not just a bad thing,” Bruce said. When Clark blinked at him, he rolled his shoulders in one of those almost-shrugs that just looked for too awkward. “It might actually help with your job if criminals are afraid of you.”

“What?” Clark blinked. “ _Why_?”

“You said once that you’re an ambulance at the middle or bottom of the cliff, without any ability to stop people from trying to push others off,” Bruce reminded him. When Clark nodded, he let out a breath that was almost heavy enough to be a sigh. “Fear acts as a deterrent. If you make potential criminals afraid of the consequences of pushing people off, they won’t do it.” 

When Clark didn’t say a word, Bruce gave him that weird half-shrug again. “Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot, Clark. If they’re afraid of what you’d do to them if you catch them breaking the law, they won’t do it.”

“Or they’ll get cleverer and figure out ways to not be caught,” Clark refuted immediately. “Or find ways to stop me from stopping them.”

“That’s the risk that you must take,” Bruce nodded. After a moment, he slid his eyes over to Clark without meeting his gaze. “Did you expect things to get _easier_ for you once you decided to start fighting against the ills of the world?”

“I…”

“Did you think people wouldn’t take issue in your interference in their affairs? That they wouldn’t think the worst of you, no matter what you do?”

“No,” Clark shook his head. “I know they would. But that’s just…” He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, hunching up his shoulders. “That’s a reason to make sure that no one ever has reason to be afraid of me, isn’t it?”

“They will find reasons, no matter what,” Bruce told him flatly. “People are always afraid of those who are more powerful than they are. The logical conclusion is to make use of that fear instead of pretending that it doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not pretending,” Clark denied immediately.

“No, you’re not,” Bruce agreed, and that surprised Clark enough that he clicked his mouth back shut to stifle the rest of his protests. 

“You’re desperately hoping that if you do enough, they’ll think of you the way you want them to,” Bruce finished.

 _Not fair_ , Clark thought again. It wasn’t fair that Bruce could see through him so easily when what he knew of Bruce could barely fit into one of his own hands. Was it because Bruce was older than he was and more experienced at this superhero slash vigilante business, like Lois had said? Or was it Clark’s own fault for being so transparent? 

“But no one can do that,” Bruce continued, voice soft and eyes finally meeting Clark’s. “Not even God can make people act in the ways he wants them to – if He could, then he wouldn’t have needed to drown the world and make Noah build an ark.” There was the briefest bitter smile on his face, deepening the creases at the sides of his eyes. “And you’re not God, Clark.”

“I know,” Clark said. He swallowed. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

 _Of course_ , Clark wanted to say. But his throat had closed up suddenly, and he could only stare at his own hands again. 

Bruce waited. His breathing was slow and steady, and his heartbeat was a constant, easy rhythm in Clark’s ears. Clark focused on the sounds, scrambling in his mind to find the right words.

“There’s a memory that keeps coming back to me recently,” he started. _After you bought the bank,_ he did not say. He looked up to see that Bruce was watching him, and then stared at his hands again. “I was five. There was a good harvest that year and the corn prices were good, so my parents took me to a bunch of doctors.” He paused. “My hearing came in that year. They were afraid that I was actually becoming deaf.”

Bruce still wasn’t moving. His gaze on Clark was very heavy. Clark took a deep breath. “None of the doctors could do anything. They can’t fix alien powers or physiology.” He tried for a rolling shrug, and ended up with another twitch. “Anyway, the weather turned horrible after the harvest. Lots of strong winds. The barn roof caved. And because my parents spent so much money on doctors for me, they couldn’t afford to call in a construction company.”

Lifting his head, he met Bruce’s eyes. “My dad nearly broke his arm trying to fix the roof with Mom.” He clenched his hands together, gripping tight enough that he could see the white bones through the skin. “Look, I always knew that there’s a lot that I can do that most people can’t, and I always try to save people because of it. It’s how my dad raised me. But it’s just…” He tried for another shrug. “I know I’m not God, Bruce. I have so many powers, but I still couldn’t figure out a way to help my parents fix a barn roof.” A bitter smile.

“Much less make sure that it wouldn’t be in need of repairs ever again.” 

“You were five,” Bruce pointed out.

“I know that,” Clark said. He raised his head, and gave Bruce a crooked smile he didn’t feel. “But I’m not five anymore, and I still feel the same.”

Bruce didn’t say a word for a long time. Then, as Clark watched, he headed over to one of the many panels in the Cave. He laid his hands flat on the buttons without pressing them. “What do you believe you can do to make it stop?”

Clark blinked. “Stop feeling like I’m not God?”

“No,” Bruce shook his head. “Stop feeling helpless.”

Three simple words, and Clark felt the air punched out of his chest. He scrambled for something to hold onto before he remembered that the equipment here was expensive and would most likely cause a lot of trouble to replace, so he gripped his own elbows instead. At least he wouldn’t break his own bones.

“I,” Clark swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“It won’t,” Bruce told him, and though his voice was low and there was a softness in his eyes that Clark had never seen before, it felt like Clark was human and Bruce had punched him again, anyway. “The more you try to do, the stronger the feeling grows.”

 _That’s not true_ , Clark wanted to protest, wanted to shout. _That can’t be true_. Every time he helped people, it felt like an accomplishment. He genuinely wanted to help them, but he still relished in the sense of satisfaction anyway. For a few seconds.

Until he was reminded that there was still so much that he couldn’t do. So much that he couldn’t help with. 

He thought of Ramona, lying there on the bed with her eyes swollen and her body wrung out by the exhaustion of crying for hours. He thought of her family, of that half-abandoned village where even the wind was lonely. If he were God, he could have waved a hand and made the soil fertile again. He could have simply waved a hand and erased Mannheim’s existence; he could have simply made it so that Ramona had never been taken from her family, never felt the burden of having to support them weigh down her thin shoulders; never gone through horrible trauma clinging to the faint hope that she was doing something for those she loved.

But he couldn’t.

“Seven years ago,” Bruce said. The sound of his voice dragged Clark out of his thoughts, and he focused his blurring vision. Bruce was still standing there over the control panel. “Dick wasn’t my only son.”

A series of beeps. Then a soft whirr at the edge of Clark’s hearing. He turned just in time to see a panel slide backwards to reveal a glass case. Clark’s breath hitched.

It wasn’t the case. It was what was inside it: a uniform, bright-coloured and fitted for a teenager with shorts. Yellow graffiti scrawled horrible words across the cloth. Clark’s eyes jerked back to Bruce just so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. 

“His name was Jason. Jason Todd,” Bruce said. His eyes were fixed on the case for long moments before they slid shut. “I wasn’t eight when he died.”

This time, Clark didn’t need to think to know what he meant. Bruce had stripped himself of his usual opaqueness and torn down his own shields to show Clark his meaning without any chance of misinterpretations. _You’re not the only one who hates being helpless_ , he was saying. _You’re not the only one who wants to save those around you. You’re not the only one who breaks when you realise you can’t_.

 _You’re not the only one who wishes desperately that he could be God_.

“If I had your powers, he wouldn’t have died,” Bruce said. “If I had your powers, you wouldn’t have, either.”

_I wish I had what you do. As much, if not more, as you wish you had what I do._

“Bruce,” Clark choked out. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the uniform, the physical manifestation of the depths of Bruce’s pain. He stumbled forward, fingers clutching for Bruce’s sleeves. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“I’m not looking to you for an apology,” Bruce interrupted him. His eyes were averted, but he wasn’t pulling away from Clark’s touch. “I just need you to understand that you’re not— that you don’t have to—” he stopped.  
_  
_ Behind his closing eyes, Clark could see it: the headquarters, not even halfway to being built but with fingerprints of every member of the team on every brick. Bruce had refused to call in a company, had made up excuses about how it would leave a paper trail that could compromise them. He had, just now, named it as a teambuilding exercise.

Maybe all of those reasons were true, were real. But there was one that Bruce had never said aloud, and which Clark now understood: Bruce had insisted that all of them built the headquarters by themselves for _his_ sake. 

All this while, he had been trying to tell Clark that he didn’t need to be alone. That he wasn’t. Not anymore.

Breath shuddering out of him, Clark leaned forward. His forehead touched Bruce’s. “Both of my fathers have always told me about how much responsibility I hold,” he said. “How much I must do and should do, given my powers.”

Clark had dreamed Dad telling him something different, that it was alright to try and fail. But that had only been a dream, in the end. Nothing but his wishful imaginings.

There was another soft whirr. The glass case disappearing behind the panel, Clark guessed, and didn’t open his eyes. He shuddered as Bruce’s hands came up to rest on his elbows.

“How long have you thought that your powers are those of a god, Clark?” Bruce asked. “How long have you thought that you must act like one?”

 _Never_ , Clark wanted to say. But he couldn't lie anymore. Not when Bruce had shown himself so much, had exposed the raw, vulnerable parts of himself to Clark. It wouldn’t be fair for Clark to hide.

“I never wanted to be looked at like a god,” he said, gripping tight enough to Bruce’s sleeves to tear rips into the cloth. “But I thought… I always thought… I should act like one. That I can’t… I can’t…” 

“You make mistakes,” Bruce told him. “There are people you can’t save. There are problems you can’t solve. Not on your own.”

Bruce’s heart was like thunder in Clark's ears, the beat staccato to Clark's own but the speed was almost the same. His skin was very warm against Clark’s own. Clark swallowed.

“Please,” he breathed out. “Please, Bruce. Help me save Ramona. Help me save everyone like her.”

Just a few words. But Clark felt as if something had been wrenched out of his chest, leaving his insides empty. Freeing his lungs so he could breathe again. Freeing his mind from the constant reminder that he didn't need to. 

He opened his eyes just in time to see the tentative rise of Bruce’s hand. Clark stilled himself, and exhaled shakily when he felt calluses scrape over the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“We won’t succeed permanently,” Bruce told him, voice tight and raspy. “Criminals are like weeds; even if we take out Mannheim and Sionis, there will be others to replace them. There will always be people who would take advantage of others, who would cause harm and pain, and neither of us will be able to stop that.”

“But we can save Ramona, can’t we?” Clark asked. He tipped his head back just enough to lean against Bruce’s hand on his neck. “We’ll make her life better. We’ll better the lives of those we can, even if it’s for a little while.” 

Barry had said: _There’s a look on some people’s faces whenever I talk to them, and they get that look when the fix I’ve gotten them out from – a mugging, a traffic accident, whatever – is like, at the very bottom of the list of their problems._ Barry had never mentioned wanting to stop trying to save people from even those supposedly inconsequential problems.

“It matters, doesn’t it?” Clark whispered. “Even if it’s only a few, even if it was only temporary… it matters, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Bruce breathed out, nodding. Then a small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. “But… Clark… We will have to fight hard and work even harder for these short moments, for these few moments. It will be hard, and there will be a lot of people against us.”

Not like with Steppenwolf; not with their team standing against a single villain and his army of mindless monsters. 

“Do you think we can take them?” Clark asked, tilting his head slightly so he could rub his cheek lightly against Bruce’s. “I think we can take them. I think it’ll be worth it.”

Bruce’s shoulders shook. Breath rushed out from between his lips, quick as a laugh. “You think we can take them, don’t you?” he returned. “And you’ll always think that it’s worth it.” 

There was a bright-sharp grin curving up Bruce's lips, and his eyes shone. His nails were digging into the invulnerable skin of Clark’s neck.

He wanted to kiss that smile, Clark realised. He wanted to taste Bruce's defiance and razor-edged hope on his tongue; wanted to hear how he sounded when his breath came short with the excitement, the thrill, and if the rhythm would match the insistent thunder of his heart.

But not now. Clark wasn't sure why, but he was sure of it. If he kissed Bruce now, he would ruin this thing growing between them, these spider-silk threads entwining with his hands on Bruce's arms and Bruce's fingers on his neck.

Instead, he smiled. Wide enough to show Bruce the emptiness now within him, the weight he had carried for so long carved out. “Do you really have to ask?” he shot back. When Bruce raised an eyebrow, he laughed.

“If we stand together, no one can really go against us,” he said. “Right?”

Closing his eyes, Bruce leaned against him. Resting his weight on Clark, trusting Clark’s strength to not allow for them to move, much less fall over. His breath shuddered out of him.

“Yeah,” he said. “We can win this.”

Bruce’s money and influence. Clark’s powers and pen. Everything else that they had, everything else they had done. Perhaps they couldn’t save the world completely. Perhaps whatever problems they solved would crop up again later, in a different form. Perhaps there would still be people they couldn’t save.

But they would still save some of them. But they would still gain some moments of peace. 

Turning his head, Clark pressed a smile into Bruce’s hair. Held him tighter, closer, splaying his hand against Bruce’s back, feeling the ragged skin and multiple scars Bruce had gained in the last twenty years because he kept trying, over and over, to save those around him.

“We can,” Clark whispered.

Right now, he believed that, together, they could take on anything. He held onto that feeling. Stored it deep into his heart along with the scent of Bruce’s hair.

***

Standing at the main entrance of the Jerold gated community, Matches Malone waited for the security guard to finish his call to Sionis to ensure that he actually had business with someone inside.

Shoving his hands into his pockets and chewing on the stick hanging at the side of his mouth, he looked past the wrought iron gates to the buildings inside. A mixture of ten-storey apartments – high enough for separations between the one-room studios on the top floors and the larger ones on the bottom – terraces, and mansions, they all somehow managed to look the same. Maybe it was because the walls were painted some variation of cream or beige, and the highlights were all in some shade of blue or another.

He didn’t belong to these swanky parts of uptown Gotham. His suits were too loud to blend in with the dull walls; his shoes too dirty and worn to seem worthy of the clean and neatly-paved streets; his sunglasses were too garish to fit the tasteful lawn decorations; and the matchstick in his mouth looked nothing like the cigarette holders that most here liked to use.

The security guard handed him his pass, eyes narrowing as he watched Matches sign his name on the visitor’s log. As he headed inside, Matches gave him a jaunty wave, and took out the stick from his mouth to point it at the man in a politer version of the middle finger. He deliberately didn’t notice the Portuguese woman steering three white children to the opposite side of the street.

Only a certain type of people lived here: the upper-middle class who weren’t rich enough to own private estates, but definitely had enough wealth to demand a gated community that kept out the riffraff. Especially those who lived in the cluster of crowded, rundown buildings in the southeast.

Roman Sionis owned an apartment building in the northernmost corner of Jerold, and he lived in the penthouse suite at the very top. The first time Matches had visited him, Sionis had taken out the time to show him the view of the Lemmars Park and the ocean from his ceiling-to-floor windows. Matches had made the required sounds of appreciation, and Sionis had laughed and slapped him on the back, saying that Matches’s lack of enjoyment of the “finer things in life” was what had always stuck him near the bottom of the heap.

Not that Matches was complaining. There was only a limited time in which he could exist. Not to mention that if he went up higher, Sionis would start seeing him as a potential rival, and that would be a world of trouble he didn’t want to deal with.

There was another guard sitting before the doorway of Sionis’s building. Seated on a rickety folding chair, the bulging paunch of his middle stuck out and distracted the eye from the strength of his thick arms. He didn’t straighten at Matches’s appearance, only cocked his head, and Matches took his cue to lower his sunglasses a fraction – just enough to show that he wasn’t some kind of imposter – before he was waved inside. The sleeve of his button-down slid upwards at the motion, showing the barest hint of a colourful tattoo.

That was a man who knew his way around better with his fists than with any kind of paper or telephone. The difference between what an organised crime boss saw “security” to be in comparison to some real estate mogul who probably made their money mostly legally. Not that legalities were much to be found when it came to real estate, especially in Gotham.

Air-conditioning blasted him in the face, the dry air sucking up the sweat from the heat of approaching summer. Matches wiped at his mouth, knuckles running across the heavy moustache, before he headed for the elevator that would take him straight up to the penthouse suite. 

The doors opened just as he stopped in front of it. He turned around, and winked in the direction of the lobby’s surveillance cameras. 

Sionis was pouring whiskey into a rock glass in his living room. As Matches stepped out of theelevator, Sionis lifted his glass, swirling the alcohol and making the large, round piece of ice clink and clang against the glass’s sides. His windows were fully open and without a hint of dark tint, sunlight pouring through to make his white jacket and sharp-stark bones gleam.

“You said you have news, Malone,” Sionis said. No greeting, straight to business; that was the kind of mood that he was in, then. 

“Just some whispers that you might be interested in, boss,” Matches said. He walked across the polished marble tiles towards Sionis. At the other man’s nod, he dropped down to drape his body across one of the plush armchairs, folding his hands on his lap. “Some stuff ‘bout Mannheim.”

“Oh?” Sionis raised an eyebrow. He raised his glass to his lips with his pinkie sticking out, but the sound of the slurping sip he took was loud in the room. “What about that coward who ran away with his tail between his legs?”

“He’s working with a real bigshot now,” Matches drawled. “Looking for some real specialised weapons.”

For the briefest of seconds, Sionis froze. Then he smacked his lips and swirled his whiskey again. It was, Matches noted, was a Johnnie Walker Aged Eighteen Years. Sionis had never gotten a taste for the classier and more expensive brands; he might’ve been born closer to filthy rich than dirty poor, but he had never managed to gain of the former’s obsession with manners. It was one of those things about him that a man like Matches could learn to appreciate.

“Make yourself clear, Malone,” Sionis said. “I ain’t got time for your insinuating bullshit.”

Matches spread out his hands. “He’s been hunting for kryptonite, boss,” he said. “And some other stuff, but mostly kryptonite.” When Sionis narrowed his eyes, Matches gave him an expansive shrug. “And he’s got a buyer lined up for it already.”

“Hm,” Sionis said. “Mannheim’s in Metropolis now, ain’t he?”

“Good bet that he’s gonna keep some of it for himself once he’s found it,” Matches nodded. Superman might not be making any overtures about interfering with crime in Metropolis or any other city, but men like Mannheim and Sionis didn’t get to their positions without looking forward; without having enough ambition that they could almost be termed as _visionaries_.

“Who’s his bigshot buyer?”

Stretching out his arm slowly, Matches pointed out of the window. Towards the sky. “Big Brother, boss,” he drawled out slowly. “Big Brother, who’s always watching.”

The glass slapped hard against the wood of the table. “The government,” Sionis snapped out. “Mannheim got an in with the _government_.”

“Feds,” Matches nodded. “Far as I’ve heard anyway.”

“Who’s your source for this?” Sionis asked, narrowing his eyes.

 _My goddamned brain_ , Matches thought. He had been lying to Sionis since the first time he called him in for the meeting. Because Mannheim wasn’t nearly well-established enough in Metropolis to start to even think about finding security measures to go up against Superman, mostly because he would’ve gotten the guy’s attention first thing by doing that. Not to mention, the feds might deign to work with criminals to put together some “suicide squad,” but actually asking and _depending_ on a criminal to get what they needed? 

Like hell it would happen. If the news got out, it would ruin whatever cred the feds would get for taking down a team of people known for saving the world. And news like that would always get out. That was what people like Matches Malone _did_ , after all. Making sure that information moved to where it needed to go.

Instead of saying any of that, Matches tipped his head down and looked at Sionis over his sunglasses. “We’ve got a deal, boss,” he said. “You don’t ask me ‘bout my sources.”

Taking a deep breath, Sionis picked up his whiskey glass again. He didn’t sip it, instead fixing his gaze on Matches. “What makes you think I’ll believe you?”

“Ain’t assuming you would, boss,” Matches said, deepening his Jersey accent just a little more as he leaned forward. “Just assuming that you’d be a smart man.”

“Oh?”

“You wanna take the risk of Mannheim poaching on your goods?” Matches raised an eyebrow. When Sionis frowned, his lips curved up into a small smirk. “C’mon, boss, information’s my kind of gig. You think I won’t figure that you’re looking for the same kind of shit Mannheim is? Why’d you think I even come to you ‘bout this?”

“Hm,” Sionis said again. He sipped at his whiskey. “Why _did_ you come to me ‘bout this?”

Matches shrugged again, leaning back against the armchair. Despite how fat and plush it looked, it actually was pretty uncomfortable. Too little stuffing; the springs dug into his back through his jacket and shirt. “I’ve already thrown my lot in with you, boss,” he said. “And I ain’t a fan of Mannheim. You know that.”

He had, in fact, been one of the factors that had allowed Sionis to toss Mannheim out of Gotham two years ago. Sionis didn’t trust easily, but anyone who could help him make his vision of himself come true would be allowed to come closer. It was why Matches hadn’t been thrown out of the penthouse via the window yet, in any case.

“I’ll check this out with my other sources,” Sionis said. He eyed Matches for a long moment before flapping his hand. “Get out of my sight.”

Good thing that Matches already had someone in Metropolis who was looking up on Mannheim and could slip a word here or two about him and specialised weapons. He just needed to remind the farmboy to keep things vague; a corn-fed diet wasn’t much suited for the growth and development of a good liar.

Standing up, Matches threw a, “Got it, boss, getting out now,” over his shoulder before he headed for the elevator. He didn’t even need to press the button before the door opened – some sort of weight sensor beneath the tile, or something of that sort – and he stepped inside. He gave another wave to Sionis’s security head, and then walked straight down the street until he was out of Jerold.

His car – a second-hand Mercedes Benz in one of the older models, with a too-loud engine, that suited the ambitions that Matches Malone’s appearance implied – was parked three streets down. Matches had barely started the engine when his phone rang. He plugged in the handset and put the earphone into one ear.

“You know, I never actually agreed to lying.”

Lidding his eyes, Matches let out a breath that spat the stick in his mouth out of the window. He allowed himself to be boxed up and tucked away to be used another day.

“I thought that was implied,” Bruce said, voice dry as he headed southwest. “Or did you think that dealing with organised crime would allow you to keep your mouth clean, Kent?”

“Isn’t the line ‘keeping my hands clean’?” Clark asked, laughter threading into his voice.

“Ain’t anything being said ‘bout you actually doing anything ‘side from talking,” Bruce said, slipping back into Malone’s Jersey accent just for effect. He instinctively stifled the twitch of his mouth when he heard Clark’s choked giggle. “Won’t be anything to do with hands there, will there?”

“Semantics,” Clark said. There was a pause, and then he sighed. “Are you _sure_ about this? You’ll be the first in the line of fire.”

Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes, mostly because he had to watch the road and partly because he knew that Clark wouldn’t see him. “Like that’s the first time,” he said, voice dry. “Besides, it’s easier for me to do it. Matches Malone can conveniently disappear if he has to. Clark Kent can’t.” Clark had used up that witness protection excuse _once_ already, after all.

“At least I’m impervious to bullets if I get shot,” Clark replied. There was another pause. “Are you _sure_ that Mannheim isn’t going to get ideas if I go around suggesting that I’ve heard about him trying to find specialised weapons?”

“He’s not actually stupid, no matter how he looks,” Matches said, shrugging. “If you insinuate here and there that you heard that the rumours are coming from Gotham, then he’ll just think that it’s Sionis finding an excuse to get rid of him permanently.” Which wasn’t far from the truth: Sionis _had_ been planning to send people to kill Mannheim, because leaving rivals alive wasn’t Sionis’s way. The utter destruction of both of Falcones and the Maronis was proof of that. 

But that had been before Superman had reappeared in Metropolis. 

“In any case,” Bruce continued, “what we’ll be doing is necessary.” When Clark didn’t reply immediately, he sighed. “Remember the _plan._ We need them to be distracted by each other so that they won’t be paying attention to their operations being attacked.”

“I know, I know,” Clark sighed. “It’s just…” He trailed off.

The car slipped into the street that divided the rest of uptown Gotham to from its red-light district. “Don’t get cold feet now,” he said. He opened the dashboard and took out a box of matches, withdrawing out and shoving it between his teeth. “Also, shut off your hearing regarding Gotham until I call you again.”

“Wait—” Clark tried to protest.

“Trust me to know what I’m doing,” Bruce cut him off, his accent an odd mix between neutral East Coast and thick Jersey. “And that it’s necessary.”

Before Clark could reply, Bruce hung up. He pulled the earphone out and dropped the wires in a sprawling tangle in the passenger seat along with his phone. He took another breath, and tugged Malone out from his box. He slid the car into the alleyway beside the house, and placed a hand on the door’s handle.

“Be a good boy, Kansas,” Matches drawled. “Obey your elders and stop listening.” 

Once he was sure that the words had reached the farmboy, Matches grabbed his wallet from the dashboard drawer and stepped out of the car. The beat-up Mercedes looked, he noted, very dull in comparison to the bright white-and-purple paint of the brothel. If Matches was that kind of man, he would think up some comment about appropriate visual metaphors.

But he wasn’t, so there was nothing in his head as he walked up the steps and knocked on the door. Despite the time of the day, it only took a few seconds to open.

“Mister Malone.” An older woman – mid-forties, with the bone structure of one who used to be pretty before drugs and cigarettes and alcohol ruined her – stood there, her hands tucked right above her thighs. “Mister Sionis hasn’t told us about your visit.”

“Ain’t here with favours, darling,” Matches drawled. He shouldered her to the side and walked into the brothel, noting that the furnishings and decorations looked a lot more fake without women draped all over them. “I’m here with cash. Bella’s in, ain’t she?”

“Sir,” the woman said, eyes not meeting his and standing to the side without blocking his way. “The girls usually need an appointment before they can be seen.”

Matches barked a laugh loud enough to echo through the brothel’s entrance room. He nudged his sunglasses down and pinned the woman with his stare. “The boss brought me here himself, lady,” he pointed out. “You think that I’m like the other schmucks that your girls spread their legs for?” 

“I…” The woman hesitated. He could see in the twitching of her fingers that she was aching to call Sionis, or even one of the men he had placed in charge of dealing with the brothel’s business. Matches kept his eyes on her, and sharpened his grin even further. Made it clear that he wasn’t going to give her the chance.

She took a deep breath. “Of course not, sir,” she said. “Please wait here while I inform Bella of your visit.”

“No need,” Matches folded his arms. “She ain’t need to be dolled up for me.” _I won’t be looking at her face_ was left unsaid, but he could see from the woman’s face that she caught it anyway. “Stop wasting my time and bring me to her, lady.”

Another moment of hesitation. Matches gave her an added incentive in the form of a shove on her back, hard enough to set her stumbling to the side, her heels clacking on the floor. He bit down on the stick in his mouth and bared his teeth.

Slowly, she nodded. “Come with me, sir,” she murmured. Her footsteps betrayed just the slightest bit of unsteadiness as she led him down the hallway. Matches looked at the closed doors around him, the near-empty house, and wondered if all of the whores were keeping away because they were afraid of what he would do, or if they didn’t want to get beaten up by their own madam the moment he left.

Probably both.

They stopped at a door that looked just like any other. Without waiting for the woman to knock, Matches closed his hand around the knob. “Give me the bill later, yeah?” he threw out. Then, without waiting for a reply, he opened the door, stepped inside, and closed and locked it behind him.

Bella was sitting by the window, a cigarette in her hand and an ashtray by the sill. At Matches’s entrance, she started to slide to her knees. When he held up a hand, she froze there in that awkward position – knees half-bent, shoulders curving forward, eyes wide on him.

He took in the dress she was wearing – a fancy black thing with a halter neck and a long slit at one side – and the lack of makeup on her face. He cocked his head to the side. “You have an appointment elsewhere tonight, girlie?”

She hesitated. He crossed his arms. “Yes, Mister Malone,” she said finally. “In two hours.”

Which meant that she likely had to be out of the whorehouse in one. “Plenty of time,” Matches said. He took a step forward and watched the way her fingers twitched as she tried to stifle a flinch. “You better hang up that pretty thing. Wouldn’t want it to get all dirty.” He crooked his fingers so she knew to get up.

Slowly, she nodded. Her legs unfolded as she stood. As she headed to the wardrobe for a hanger and unzipped her dress, Matches considered his options.

He wasn’t afraid that Sionis would find out about his visit – he was counting on the madam to tell the boss about it, actually, because Matches Malone acting like some trumped-up two-bit hood who crossed the boundaries of his accepted station would read to Sionis that the information he just gave was accurate. But given that asking specifically for Bella meant that Sionis would think that he had some leverage over Matches… it meant that Matches would actually have to fuck her.

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t expected; he had warned the farmboy to stop listening for a reason, after all. But, he thought to himself as he watched Bella slip off her lingerie and walk towards the bed, it still left a hell of a shitty taste in his mouth. Way less bad than what she was likely feeling, sure, but still a terrible taste. He swallowed.

She was kneeling on the bed by the time he reached it. One touch of her shoulder had her lying down. Matches unbuckled his belt, pulled his zip down. When he brushed his fingers between her legs, she was completely dry. Not like he was hard at all either, though that part he could figure out pretty easily.

“Only time I like the sight of red on my cock, girlie,” he said as he nudged open her folds, “is when someone’s lipstick is smeared ‘round it.” He watched her face carefully. “You get my meaning?”

Her shoulders pressed hard against the mattress as he started to rub. She nodded with her teeth sunk into her lower lip. She looked young, _really_ young, like that. Bad taste on the tongue, dripping down to his throat. Bitter and sharp enough to make him want to gag. When she closed her eyes, Matches took the chance to lower his own lids, pulling up some of the techniques he knew so blood could fill his cock.

Eventually, he put the condom on and pushed inside her. Her eyes were still pressed tightly shut, her hands clenched on the sheets. Matches slammed one fist down on the mattress beside her head, just hard enough to make her look at him.

“How did you get here, girlie?”

“W—” Her breath hitched for a moment as he used his other hand to make sure that she stayed wet enough to not start bleeding. “What?”

“I said,” Matches hissed out, leaning in. “You’re a pretty girl with manners. The kind who won’t give a guy like me the time of the day if she’s got a choice. So, how d’you end up here?”

“Mister Malone,” she said, words remarkably coherent despite her hitching breaths. “Are you actually expecting me to _talk_ right now?”

Matches cocked his head, looking at her. Like this, with her gaze fixed on his and her lips parted, she actually looked alive. Like she was actually a person instead of a doll that had carved out everything within herself so she would _stop_ being a person.

“Yeah,” he said. He moved both hands to the bed, wiping her slick off on the sheets. “I’m asking you a question, ‘cause I’m goddamned curious.” He paused. “And if I wanted a dead fish, I’d have found a blow-up doll, girlie.”

To his honest surprise, she laughed. A harsh snap of a sound, resembling windows rattling more than any kind of giggle. Then her thighs were around his hips, her heels digging into his back, and she dragged him in until he was buried in her to the root. He barely had the time to gasp at the sensation – look, it was slick heat around his cock, he couldn’t help himself – before her hands were on his lapels, pulling him in.

“You come here, Mister Malone,” she whispered into his ear. “Barge into this place, force yourself into this room, and _you weren’t hard_.” She had been watching him as he had been watching her, Matches realised, a little too late. She had been taking notes and putting the pieces together.

Her heels pressed harder into the small of his back. “When a man comes to a whore in a hurry, it’s usually because he wants her,” she continued. “But this,” she rocked her hips up, her folds rubbing over his balls, “do you even _want_ to fuck me, Mister Malone?”

“Hard to say no when you’re doing that,” Matches ground out.

She laughed again, practically a snarl this time. When he shoved hard against the mattress, she let go of his lapels, her eyes bright and narrowed as she stared at him.

“How did _you_ get here?” she asked. “ _Sir_.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Whatever she saw in his eyes managed to convince her that letting go of his hips was a good idea. Matches breathed out, and he pulled out of her, closing his hands around the base of the condom and yanking the latex off. She stayed on the bed, legs crossed, as he stood up and threw the thing into the trash. 

He zipped up his pants and buckled his belt while watching her head for the bathroom. The sound of running water. She came back with her thighs gleaming with the dull shine of just-cleaned skin and put on her panties. Matches shoved another stick into his mouth – the other one was already lost somewhere on the carpeted floor – before he dug into his pockets. Found his wallet and tossed it over to her.

She snapped the button open. Raised an eyebrow. “You gonna try to pay me off?” she asked, staring at the money inside.

“Not the cash,” Matches told her. “Look harder. There’s a card.”

Tugging it out, her other eyebrow rose. She looked at it from one side, then the other. “ _Daily Planet_ ,” she read out. “Is that supposed to mean something.”

Carrying the card around hadn’t been Matches’s idea, but the farmboy’s. Something about needing a cover story in case he was ever found out. Matches had tried to refuse, tried to say that he didn’t need that kind of shit, because he had been doing this long enough to know how things went. The farmboy had insisted, talking about how he shouldn’t always think the worst about people, about how they could sometimes be better than he thought and surprise him.

Matches had put the card into his wallet just to shut him up. Now he actually had to tell the farmboy that he had a point.

“Yeah,” he said. “Some bright spark over there got hold of information ‘bout some particular bastards you’re better acquainted with than I am,” he said. “Convinced me to act as his source.”

Drawing up her leg, she dropped her chin onto her knee. “Convinced you,” she repeated. Slowly, her lips curved up into a smirk. “That’s why you had to try so hard to fuck me, Mister Malone?” Her hand curved around a breast. “Too much tits for you?”

Matches spread out his hands. “Can’t a man have an attack of conscience ‘bout what he’s been doing with his own life and want to do something to fix some of the shit he’s caused?”

Her other eyebrow went up. Matches snorted. “Only head I’m led by is this one, girlie,” he tapped his temple. When she didn’t look like she believed him, he sighed. “You gonna tell your madam or your boss ‘bout me?”

“What’s your pretty reporter going to do with whatever information you give him?” she asked instead of answering.

Heading over to the window, Matches leaned against the frame and shrugged. “Do what reporters do,” he answered. “Plus, he has some contacts with the police. With the feds.” He watched her for a long moment over the tops of his sunglasses. “Gonna try to shut all of this down.”

“And you think that it’d work,” she said.

“I think,” Matches said, “it’d be a good enough try for me to risk my neck for it.” He folded his arms. “Maybe not enough for you to risk yours, but it ain’t like anyone would figure out where I got my information from, anyway.”

”Really.” Her tone was very flat.

“Ask around ‘bout me, girlie,” Matches drawled back. “I’ve got a rep for knowing stuff without anyone ever figuring out who told it to me.” He paused. “That’s the reason why the reporter came looking for me.”

She fell silent for a long moment, turning the _Daily Planet_ card over and over in her hand. Matches gave her time to think: she had nothing but his word that he was telling the truth; nothing but a few bits and pieces of clues to cling to for belief that he wasn’t lying to her. Hell, even if she was given more proof, she still would have nothing to make her believe it was a good idea for her to throw her lot in with him.

There was another option she could choose: she could call for the madam and tell the older woman everything Matches had said. But she hadn’t any proof: a _Daily Planet_ card in his wallet couldn’t prove shit; could just be one of those random things Matches had picked up and kept for no reason whatsoever. In fact, she had even given him the perfect excuse for him barging in and later lack of interest in her: that he was gay and came here trying to prove that his cock could still rise for a woman.

Still, she could do it. Matches was practically expecting her to, at this point.

Eventually, she placed the card back into the wallet. Laid the leather down carefully on the sheet and stood up. Matches moved out of the way as she came to the windowsill, picking up her discarded cigarette and lighting it again. 

“What’s his name?” she asked. “You want me to talk, you give me his name. Then come back here in three days.”

“Giving conditions now?” Matches tilted his head.

“You need something from me,” she pointed me. “I don’t need anything from you.”

She had a point. Matches considered his options for a moment. He probably should ask the farmboy if he could give out his name, but Matches had an inkling that he didn’t need to. That the farmboy already expected this if, in his own words, people managed to surprise Matches.

“Clark Kent,” he said. “You want his office number?”

“And then you can make sure someone’s on the line to back up your story?” she snorted. “No. I’ll find out myself.” 

“Smart girl,” Matches said, the words slipping out despite himself. When she stared at him, unimpressed, he laughed, shaking his head. “What’s your name?”

“You already know my name,” she pointed out. “Both of them.”

“Phrased the question wrong,” Matches said. He crossed his arms and leaned back harder against the wall, watching her over the top of the sunglasses. “Which one do you use for yourself in your own head?”

Maybe it was a stupid question. But while Matches didn’t exactly know the significance of names, someone he was acquainted with did. Someone who lived inside his head.

She went still. Just as the ash at the end of the cigarette threatened to drop and spill all over the carpeted floor, she flicked it into the ashtray. Her too-visible ribs pushed against her thin skin as she took a deep breath.

“Ileana,” she said softly. “It has been five years since I’ve been called by that name, but I still…” She trailed off, giving Matches a twitch of the shoulders too stiff to be called a shrug.

She was still holding on. Despite everything she had gone through, everything she had been forced to become, she still held on tightly to he person she had been. There was, Matches had to admit, something pretty admirable in that.

“Alright,” he said. “Ileana it is then.” A lopsided smirk. “Only when no one else can hear.”

Her head lowered. Matches looked at her, and then headed over to the bed to pick up his wallet. He took out the _Daily Planet_ card and placed it on the nightstand. She could still suspect that the number written on it was some sort of fake, but some thirty seconds on Google would prove that to be wrong.

Well, that was if she had access to the Internet. Which, given her conditions, Matches supposed she did. Perhaps the farmboy was really right about him underestimating the capabilities of people.

He dropped his wallet back into his pocket and headed for the door. “Three days,” he told Ileana. “I’ll come back.”

She nodded. He left the room and headed down the hallway. The madam was waiting there, and she didn’t even try to hide the triumph in her eyes when she looked at him. Matches grinned at her, baring his teeth, and dug out his wallet.

“That was pretty damned great,” he said. “How much is she, again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter is now only 2 scenes because I keep breaking the 10k barrier.
> 
> The lines “Do you think we can take them?” is from pre-new 52 _Superman/Batman_ by Jeph Loeb. I’ve paraphrased and then reversed them: it’s _Bruce_ who originally said, “Do you think we can take them? I think we can take them.”
> 
> The whole plot regarding Mannheim, Sionis, and the specialised weapons thing is plagiarised from _paroxysms of safety._ Yes, I plagiarised myself. Mostly because I didn’t fully flesh out this plot in that fic, and it’ll be a waste if I didn’t.


	6. laying (the bricks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lois has a long-delayed talk with Clark. Bruce Wayne introduces some important people in his life to the board members of Wayne Foundation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** A pretty big number of new characters in the second scene, because a board meeting can’t happen without members of a board. I’ve tried to make sure that their introductions are clear and that they’re all distinctive, but it might still be confusing. Don’t worry too much if you can’t catch a lot of them. They’re kind of the throwaway characters I said I don’t write.
> 
> Also, lots and lots of slurs and assumptions about prostitution, and implications about what men do with prostitutes.

A lighter clicked. The sizzle-snap of burning paper. Crisp, sharp scent of burning menthol mixing with the heavier stench of tobacco. Lois’s hand curled around a white stick, the engagement diamond on her fourth finger catching the neon and fluorescent lights of Metropolis’s night.

“This is for you,” she said. A file slapped against Clark’s chest. When he took it, she leaned her elbows against the railing of their shared balcony, looking out towards the city.

Clark watched her for a moment. “I thought you quit smoking years ago,” he said. His fingers twitched, and he bit back a comment about the harms the habit could do to her body.

“Started indulging a bit, once in a while,” Lois said. Her eyes were bright and curved up at the corners when she turned to him, smoke coiling out of the edges of her mouth. “Not nearly enough to get me addicted again, so don’t worry about me.”

They watched each other for a moment. Clark brushed his thumbs over the edges of the file Lois had handed him. It was thin, and the plastic folded slightly beneath his touch. He almost opened it when Lois shook her head.

“There’s something I’d like to say first, before you read that,” she jerked her head towards the file. When Clark obediently placed the file down on the floor, she gave him another smile. Her back turned towards the city, and she hoisted herself to sit on the railing, high-heeled feet dangling off the tiled floor.

Immediately, instinctively, Clark moved closer, one hand reaching out for her back to steady her. Lois’s smile died, and she shook his head. His arm dropped back to his side. He pushed himself up to sit on the railing next to her instead, and she sighed.

“Do you remember,” she started, tilting her head up to stare up to the dull, cloudy skies, “what I told you after Nairomi?”

Suddenly, Clark suspected that he knew exactly what she needed to talk to him about. He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “I remember.”

_I just don’t know if it’s possible_ , Lois had said. _For you to love me and be you_. He had tried to reassure her, then. To distract her from such dark thoughts. 

“It was the wrong question for me to ask, though I didn’t realise it at the time.” Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, Lois tapped her cigarette, sending ash spiralling twelve storeys down to the streets. “I should’ve asked…” She took a deep breath. Shook her head.

“Lois,” Clark started, reaching out for her. But she shook her head, taking another drag of her cigarette, and his hand fell back to his side for the second time in as many minutes.

“Let me finish,” Lois said. When Clark nodded, biting down on his lip again, Lois sighed. “In Nairomi, before you arrived, the General I was supposed to interview told me that he hadn’t been expecting a lady.” A laugh escaped her, dark and bitter-sounding. “Did you hear it?”

“No,” Clark said, perfectly honest. Even then, he had tried his best to not listen in when she was working, because he didn’t want to end up stealing her scoops. Because he trusted her to do her job.

“It was a politer phrasing of the question than I’m used to,” Lois continued, shaking her head. “And I’m used to it. Used to the fact that I will have to prove myself, and keep proving myself, to do what I do. It’s not something that _bothers_ me, because making sure that people take me seriously is second nature by now.” She paused.

“But?” Clark prompted.

She took another long drag of the cigarette, paper and tobacco burning as her lips pursed. “You died,” she said, smoke escaping her mouth along with the words. “I mourned for you, and wrote nothing but puff pieces in the meantime.” 

Clark didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

This should hurt, he thought distantly to himself. It should feel like someone was reaching into his heart and closing a fist around it, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe. Lois had been… Lois _was_ so many things to him, so important to him in so many ways, and he _knew_ now that he would be losing her.

But there was only emptiness. A hollow sense of inevitability. 

“Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve wanted for myself, all of that buried under my grief,” Lois continued. “And it was seven months, Clark. News cycles move fast, and now everyone’s forgotten about me, and I have to fight to get my reputation as the best back again.”

“I—” Clark started, but she raised her hand, cutting him off with another fall of ash down to the streets.

“Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault.” Lois sighed. “It’s a choice I made, and I wouldn’t have minded if…” She turned to him again, and her eyes were solemn and dark as she met his gaze. “You have saved me so many times, Clark. When I have ever saved you?”

_Countless times,_ Clark wanted to tell her. _You save me every day, just by being here_. He wanted to tell her that she was his home, his world; wanted to say that she was the ground beneath his feet, the solidity he needed to leap upwards to the sky.

But how could he, when he had told her once that his world was already gone? But how could he lay that burden upon her shoulders when she was already bending forward, shoulders bowed with her elbows on her knees and lines carved deep to the sides of her eyes?

“When you were gone, I talked to your mother,” Lois continued, her lopsided smile telling Clark that she had seen his answer in his eyes. “She told me that, days before you went to fight Luthor’s monster, she told you that you don’t owe the world anything. She told you that you could do, and be, anything you wanted to be, and your powers didn’t lay on your shoulders a responsibility that you have to fulfil.”  
_  
_ Not in those exact words, but… “Yeah,” Clark nodded. “She did.”

“But you fought that monster anyway,” Lois said. “Your mother had tried to tell you before that you didn’t have to, but you did. I begged you not to, but you still did.”

He had, and he had left them behind, filled with the helplessness of being able to do nothing but grieve. What could his mother have done? What could Lois have done? Neither of them would ever be able to even get near the motherbox, much less know its capabilities. All they could have done was to mourn for him, without even the barest glimpse of hope that he could return. 

All they could have done was to return to their memories, to all that they had said and done, and how he hadn’t listened. How he had decided to do what he had, without thought that he would be leaving them behind. Clark closed his eyes.

“I have been unfair to you,” he whispered. “To both of you.”

Lois nudged him on the shoulder. When he looked at her again, Lois shook her head, flicking her finished cigarette over the railing. “We have been unfair to each other,” she corrected. “You can’t enter a relationship by yourself, Clark.” After a moment’s pause, she stroked her knuckles over his temple.

“You don’t get to take the choices I’ve made away from me.”

“Is that what I’ve been doing?” Clark asked through a closing throat.

“No,” Lois said. Digging into her pockets, she pulled out her pack. She lit up another cigarette, lighting it up and blowing smoke into the air. “To say that you’ve been meaning to do that means that you intended to, Clark, and I know you didn’t. That you never would.” She leaned back into the air with one hand curled around the edge of the railing, and sighed. 

“But it’s the natural consequence of saving people.”

_It’s my fault. It’s my choice_. Ramona had clung onto that belief out of sheer desperation and need for some sort of control in a world that had tossed her around like a leaf in a hurricane. But Lois was made of steel, and her feet were strong enough to keep her deeply-rooted to the ground if she wanted to. It wasn’t the same.

Yet their eyes looked exactly the same. Without reproach, without blame, but coloured with sorrow that came from resignation of their own helplessness in the world.

_What I’m saying is that I want to understand what happened_ , Lois had told him after Nairomi. _I’m saying thank you for saving my life_. She had been sincere with both statements. When she had stood there, with that man’s arm around her neck, her eyes had met his and shone bright with love and gratitude for his presence. 

He had been so confused, at the time. He hadn’t understood how she could love him for saving her and yet be worried about what had happened. Later, he had tried convincing himself that it was because of Lois’s love of truth; that she had dug into the incident because she knew something was fishy about it.

But that wasn’t the entire story, was it? Digging into the incident, piecing together the disparate accounts… that was what Lois could do. That was what she was good at, as a journalist.

Then, with his death, she had lost that, too. She had lost it so thoroughly that it was only after she had regained it that she understood the depth of the loss.

Clark pulled off his glasses. He rubbed at his eyes. 

“The question you should’ve asked at the time,” he murmured. “I think I know the answer.”

“If it’s possible for me to love you,” Lois whispered to the sky, “and still be me.” She took another drag of her cigarette. “I’ve done my best throughout my life to never fit into the mould of a damsel in distress, Clark, and…” Finally, she turned to look at him. “Being your anchor is just a prettier way of saying that I’m deadweight.” 

His throat went dry. He wanted to protest, to say that she _wasn’t_. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t, because none of her words had ever sunk deep enough into him to gain hooks. He couldn’t, because he should have learned about how he couldn’t save the world, and yet his first instinct was still – and would most likely always be – to save _her_. Yet, even now, the stench of burning tobacco made his fingers twitch to take the cigarette away from her.

To save her from the bad habit she had voluntarily picked up again. He rubbed at his eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” he tried, but there was a finger on his lips. When he blinked, Lois was standing in front of him. He leaned back when she blew smoke into his face, grinning out of one side of her mouth.

“There’s one more thing I need to tell you before you start blaming yourself,” she said. When he nodded, she took a deep breath and cupped his cheek. Tugged him forward until his vision was filled up with the brown of her eyes.

“Listen,” she said. “I can probably get strong enough to fight off one team of kidnappers by myself, provided if they don’t have guns, but…” A deep breath. “I’m never going to get strong enough to be able to defeat the kind of creatures that you’ll eventually end up fighting. Things like Luthor’s monster. Like that Steppenwolf guy.” She exhaled, breath smelling of burnt tobacco.

“No one can.” She paused. “Not properly. Not enough to stand beside you.”

Clark closed his eyes. Leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “I know,” he said. He had defeated everyone in the team so _easily_ when caught up in the rage and madness post-resurrection. And he knew without anyone telling him that the team had been struggling against Steppenwolf before he’d arrived. 

He _knew_.

“So,” Lois continued, stroking her knuckles over his cheek to nudge him into opening his eyes, “whoever you end up finding to stand beside you will have to do it in another way.” She paused. Cocked her head to the side. “Not another reporter, though. No one will be as good as _me_.”

Something Bruce had said once came back to him: _We buy him some time. He can stop those boxes from destroying all life on Earth_. Bruce had been talking about Victor. He hadn’t even mentioned Clark actually helping Victor with pulling the boxes apart; that had been Victor himself, later.

Clark blinked. Wait a _goddamn minute_ — had Bruce, even then, had Bruce already figured him out? Was that why he didn’t say, _Beat up Steppenwolf and then stop the motherboxes because you can obviously do everything, Clark_ , because, uh, Clark did actually end up doing mostly everything, and that was part of why he had such an issue with the thing with the farm—

Wait, if Bruce actually knew this about him, that Clark had severe issues with accepting help because it meant admitting that there was something he couldn’t actually do, then why on Earth did Bruce buy the damned farm in the first place—

“Batman?” Lois was saying.

“Huh?”

“That look on your face,” Lois said. She tapped the fingers holding onto the cigarette on his cheek, the embers light heat against his invulnerable skin. “I start talking about someone standing beside you, and then your eyes got that faraway look. Batman, right?”

“Uh,” Clark said intelligently. He stared at her for a long moment, and then rubbed his knuckles over his mouth. “Kind of?” He paused. “Why don’t you have a problem with this?”

Lois took another long drag from her cigarette and then tossed the rest over the railing. Before Clark could protest against the repeated littering, Lois grabbed him by the face and pulled him forward, eyes boring deep into this.

“Clark,” she said, dragging his name out. “You were dead for _months_. I’ve had plenty of time to get used to the idea of you not being mine, especially since that wasn’t my entire problem regarding you being dead. My problem was that you were _dead_.”

“I’m sorry?” Clark tried. He was genuinely confused right now.

“Why do you think I brought up the whole thing about you needing someone to stand beside you in the first place?” Lois asked. She wasn’t rolling her eyes, but Clark was getting the distinct feeling of her doing so, anyway. Lois had a bit of a gift for that. “Did you know why it took me until _now_ to tell you all of this?”

“Because you needed time to think about it after I came back?” Clark asked.

“Partly,” Lois said, shrugging. “But I figured this out that day on the rooftop.” She paused. “After the Damascus thing.” When she had told him to go to ask Bruce for help. “I’ve waited for this long because…”

Sighing, she pulled back. With her eyes still on him, she said, “Because you’ve been looking better recently.” A small, lopsided smile. “Less like you’re carrying the whole world on your shoulders, and more like you’ve found someone to bear the weight with you.”

“Oh,” Clark said.

“So,” Lois repeated. “Batman?”

“Are you asking because you want to be sure,” Clark cocked his head, “or because you want the satisfaction of being right?”

Lois _grinned_ at him. Wide, full of teeth, and perfectly smug. The smile of Lois Lane who had found a story that she _knew_ would get an incredible amount of traction and readership, a story that could possibly change the world. Clark hadn’t seen that smile in a while. In fact, he hadn’t seen it since Nairomi.

“Both,” she told him. She crossed her arms, tapping her fingers on her elbows. “Well?”

“I… don’t know?” Clark scratched the back of his neck. Why was this his _life_. His fiancée hadn’t finished becoming his ex- fiancée and was already interrogating him about someone else being his lover. _How_ was this his life. “It’s… He’s…” He shrugged expansively. “It’s Batman?”

“‘Tried to kill you and then revived you’ Batman,” Lois said slowly, “or ‘talked mostly with his butler and hence has no communication skills’ Batman?”

Clark stared at her. Choked out a sound that was very uncomfortably close to a giggle. “Second one,” he said, and slapped his hand over his face. It didn’t stop his shoulders from shaking.

Lois snorted. “You’re not particularly good at this communicating thing, you know,” she said, voice dry.

“Yeah,” Clark’s lips twitched. He stepped backwards and pushed himself up onto the railing again, sitting on it with his legs swinging as he looked at her. “The Flash kind of implied that it’s a thing when it comes to people who put on costumes to save people.” He paused. “Or, well, he says that only Wonder Woman has communication skills, and no one has a functioning social circle.”

“I don’t know about the rest of them,” Lois said, hoisting herself up to sit on the railing next to him, their shoulders brushing, “but they’re right about you.” She gave him a flat stare. “One girlfriend and one mother does not a social circle make.”

Clark closed his mouth. Dropped the finger he had lifted into the air. “Okay, fine,” he grumbled. “I’m sad and lonely and undersocialised.” He slid his eyes over to her. “That satisfying enough a conclusion?”

“Only because you’re actually doing something about it,” Lois told him cheerfully. “The Flash, huh? Wonder Woman?”

“Yeah,” Clark shrugged. When she opened her mouth again, he shook his head. “I’ve had like, _one_ proper conversation with the Flash.” He paused, nudged her shoulder with his own. “Because I’m sad and lonely and undersocialised and don’t know how to talk to people.”

“Good Clark,” she said, lips twitching. She patted him on the head. “You’re learning.”

“You know,” Clark said, narrowing his eyes, “you’re only nine years older than me. That doesn’t actually make me a _kid_.” 

“Uh huh,” Lois said, clearly disbelieving. “Hold on.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket, and swiped some buttons. Clark leaned over her shoulder just in time to see her pull up Bruce’s Wikipedia page.

“You,” Lois said, pointing to the number denoting Bruce’s age, eight years and a few months older than Clark, “have a _type_.”

“Two people doesn’t make a type,” Clark protested. “Also, like I said, _Batman_. It’s not— we’re not—” He could barely understand Bruce yet, much less anything else— though there was the thing his feet did which kept drawing him towards Bruce— but that didn’t have to carry any meaning if he didn’t want it to—

“Eggs. Chickens. Counting,” he said, flapping his hands at Lois a little desperately. 

He must have looked pretty silly, because Lois stared at him, and threw her head back. She laughed so hard that her hands went white-knuckled around the railing to stop herself from falling off as she rocked back and forth. Clark watched her, resisting the urge to steady her. Told himself that she could handle herself. That she should be given the chance to do so.

After a while, Lois jumped down. She looked at his hand until he got the message and held it out. Then she tugged the engagement ring off her finger, and dropped it into his palm.

“It’s a pity, though,” she said. “You’re not going to be able to get it resized. Plus, it’s _really_ not his style.”

“Lois!” Clark yelped. He knew she was just teasing him at this point, but seriously, he couldn’t help it. His mind skittered right away the moment he even tried thinking of Bruce that way. Which, he supposed, might be a hint? _Ugh_.

He took a deep breath. Pushed his mind away from Bruce in the time that Lois took to stop laughing at him again. “Can I give it back to you as collateral?” he asked. “For rent?”

She blinked. “Huh?”

“I mean, I’ll need to find another flatmate if I want to afford an apartment with a balcony,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. Clark might be legally alive, but all of his savings went to his mom after his death. He wasn’t going to ask her for them. They weren’t even enough to cover seven months’ worth of the money he usually sent her anyway.

“And I’m not sure I can find someone who won’t ask questions if they see me flying in,” he continued.

Lois looked at him for a long moment. “You sure you can just see me as a flatmate?” She paused. “A friend?”

“You know,” Clark said, “I have to see you at the _Planet_ every day as my colleague anyway.” He paused. Lifted up one side of his mouth experimentally. “As a friend.”

“Good practice,” Lois said. She reached out and closed his fingers around the ring and tugged his arm down. “Better collateral than a ring, Clark. Especially since I’ll still make you pay your part of the rent.”

She was paying the bigger part right now; the end result of an argument they had when he first moved in. Her arguments about him just starting out while she was paid more still stood, but… Clark did some quick calculations as he pocketed the ring. He would still need to visit Ramona, but if he ducked out more during mealtimes… Unless an emergency came up, he wouldn’t even have to pawn the ring. 

“Fifty-fifty?” he tried.

Lois’s eyes softened. She cupped his cheeks and stood on her tiptoes, but he still had to lean down so she could kiss his forehead.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Sure thing.” 

There was something in her voice, a heaviness wound around those words that he couldn’t quite grasp. He pushed it away. She agreed, and that was the important thing.

Pulling away from her, he picked up the file from the floor. Lois squeezed his shoulder and ducked back inside the apartment. Clark had it on the tip of his tongue to call her back, then he actually started reading what she had given him.

It was a WayneTech receipt of sale; several high-end cyber-security measures to a company whose name Clark didn’t recognise. His eyes narrowed as he flipped the page. The next few pages showed how that company was linked to another, and another, and another, until a familiar name appeared. The company that Clark _knew_ owned a particular building to the west of Metropolis. Bruno Mannheim’s apartment building.

_WayneTech_ provided Mannheim’s operations with their cyber-security. In fact, Clark wouldn’t be surprised if they provided Mannheim with the electronics for surveillance and other such things either.

He closed the folder. Turned around, and stepped back into the apartment.

“Why did you tease me about Batman when you already know about this?” 

Lois paused from where she had been pulling her laptop lid open. She turned to him. “I wanted you to remember the good things you know about him,” she said quietly. “So you wouldn’t end up coming to conclusion and making another mistake.”

Clark took a deep breath. Let it out. He understood why she needed him to do that. Understood what she wanted from him, now.

“I’ll ask him,” he told her. She was still looking at him. “I promise I won’t stomp into his house and start accusing him. I’ll _ask_.”

He didn’t break his promises. That just wasn’t what he did. No matter how much he already wanted to.

Dammit, he was going to see Bruce tomorrow afternoon to continue with the plan. He would ask him then. He _would_.

***

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Bruce greeted as he stepped through the heavy double doors. He walked towards the long table, flashing the classic Bruce Wayne smile – a touch too wide – as he slapped the top. “Thank you for agreeing to a change to our usual location.”

He paused, scanning the other eight people present before his smile widened further. “Now, for an explanation of why I have called you here, I’d like you to take a look at the window to your left.”

On cue, the dark tint on the glass lightened, taking a few seconds before clearing entirely. The dull grey sunshine of Gotham in early spring caught on the green leaves of the trees and lawns of Yeavely Park all the way to the south, just before the ocean, and sprawled in front of the board members’ eyes the sight of the southeast part of Gotham’s uptown island. One particular building stood out: three-storeys and painted with a deep shade of burgundy, the antithesis of the tall condominiums in more subdued shades that loomed around it.

“What is it that you’ve called us here to see, Mister Wayne?” Ferris Boyle asked.

“I’m glad you asked,” Bruce said. He headed over to the window and knocked on the glass through which uptown’s unofficial red-light district could be seen. “It came to my attention recently that we might not have gotten rid of organised crime in the city as we thought after the arrests of Misters Falcone and Maroni.” He gave them a few moments to stifle their snorts; if they, some of the most powerful people in Gotham, weren’t aware of that, then he would have been very surprised.

Even Silver St. Cloud would’ve figured that particular bit out, no matter how much she liked to act like her primary occupation was that of a socialite.

“And,” he turned around to meet their gazes one by one, “they have intruded into uptown recently.”

“Interesting.” Kathryn Monroe, the matriarch of the Monroe family which owned several chains of high-end hotels the world over, said. “Disturbing news, of course. But is that not something you inform the Commissioner of the Police instead of us, Mister Wayne?”

Bruce waved a hand carelessly. “Commissioner Gordon told me that he was already aware,” Which wasn’t a lie; Gordon _was_ aware of Sionis’s presence in Gotham. Just not of that particular brothel. “They are taking measures, and I’m sure that it won’t be long before our good boys in blue clean up those particular streets.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Aubrey James – ex-Mayor of the city – smirk to himself as his eyes slid towards Theodore Galavan, the current Mayor. One of Galavan’s campaign promises had been to rid the police force of corrupt influences, “a feat that Mister James seemed sadly inadequate to accomplish,” he had said then. 

Galavan still had not kept that particular promise. 

“My interest is in what happens _next_ ,” Bruce continued. “As you all know, our good city is suffering from a lack of willing applicants for the lowest-ranked jobs.” He held their gazes for a long moment, making sure that they understood that he wasn’t talking about factory workers, but instead street cleaners, train attendants, and other such jobs that Gotham citizens – encouraged by the Foundation’s long-standing education policies – now saw themselves to be far too good for.

“I suggest that we set up an organisation,” he spread out his hands. “The victims of those criminals have received an absolutely _terrible_ view of Gotham’s hospitality.” He paused. “I suggest that we fix that, and solve the issue of our declining labour for lower-end jobs at the same time. A win-win situation.”

There was bile at the back of his throat. Worse than when Malone was in the room alone with Ileana. Bruce refused to swallow it back; let it wash over his tongue instead.

“You must be kidding.” Ferris Boyle said. Of course it would be Boyle to make the first protest. He was already staring at Bruce with incredulity like he had made a joke in bad taste among all of them. “Surely even _you_ don’t think that doing something like this would be good for the Foundation’s reputation, Mister Wayne.” Somehow, _Mister_ from his lips sounded like a dirty word.

“Would I not?” Bruce cocked his head.

“The current political climate isn’t ideal,” Simon Stagg added, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Have we all forgotten that Trump rode to the Presidency on the back of his anti-immigration stance? If the Foundation starts talking about letting illegal aliens stay in Gotham to take up American jobs, it’s going to be a publicity nightmare.”

“Ah,” Bruce said idly, to no one in particular. “I didn’t realise that the Foundation is so concerned with publicity.”

“Mister Stagg,” Silver St. Cloud said, leaning forward without even a glance at Bruce as acknowledgment that he had spoken. Wearing a dress the colour of her name, with diamonds on her ears and her dark hair in an elaborate up-do, she looked far more like a brainless socialite in the middle of some party instead of at a meeting between power brokers of one of the wealthiest charity organisations in the country.

But her eyes were sharp on Stagg. “You have forgotten that Gotham was wholly blue during the election, with Clinton clinching over eighty percent of the city’s votes.” Her red-tipped nails clacked loud on the wooden table. “Directly going against Trump would win us a great number of hearts in the city.”

“Voting for Clinton,” Stagg shook his head, “isn’t the same as agreeing to have potential jobs taken away from them.”

“No one’s doing those jobs, Stagg,” Galavan pointed out. When eyes turned towards him, he shrugged. “The Mayor’s office is already receiving multiple requests from companies to lift the limit on the number of foreigners they are allowed to hire. At least these ones would already be familiar with the city.”

He didn’t speak about how said Mayor’s office would gain more power if Gotham rejected the laws imposed by the federal authorities. He didn’t have to; his intentions shone brightly enough in his eyes.

“We are,” Kathryn Monroe said, giving Stagg and Boyle glares sharp enough click their mouths back shut, “missing the main issue concerning Mister Wayne’s plan.”

“Oh?” Aubrey James took that moment to cut in. “Do enlighten us, Mrs Monroe.”

Monroe didn’t even bother looking at him, her gaze fixed on Bruce. “You’re suggesting that our Foundation deal directly with _whores_ , and find them legitimate jobs,” she stated flatly. “Are you listening to yourself, Mister Wayne?”

“I didn’t realise,” Bruce informed the ceiling, “that the Foundation specialises in keeping its hands clean of the filth of the underclass in society.”

“We work with talented children to provide them funds for education,” Monroe said, voice level. “We work with impoverished communities to better their living conditions. Despite my protests, all of you have insisted on working with drug addicts and ex-convicts, with _battered women_ ,” she sneered out the term, “and now you want our money to be dirtied by contact with whores?”

Bruce picked up his glass. Over the rim, his eyes skimmed over Monroe’s grey hair. She was barely ten years his senior, but her mind was definitely stuck in the last century. 

“There is another issue, Mister Wayne,” David Lamond said. As always when he spoke during the meetings, his fingers were twitching. “What of the children?”

Lamond had made himself wealthy through clever investments in technological companies during the dot-com boom. His money was the newest in the entire room. He was also the head of the Child Protection Services branch in Gotham.

“What of them?” Bruce sipped at his water. “Are you suggesting that even breathing in the proximity of these victims of human trafficking,” his eyes flicked towards Monroe, smile turning sardonic for a moment, “would corrupt Gotham’s children?”

“Of course not,” Lamond burst out. “Only that… These… these _victims_ might believe that the easiest way to ensure their continuous stay in the city is through having children who become citizens by virtue of their place of birth, Mister Wayne. And…” He shrugged. “Children who are born for any purpose other than the want for them tend to end up abused.”

He should start keeping track of the number of insults one room of board members could fling, in less than ten minutes, at a whole group of women they hadn’t even met.

“Well,” Bruce put his glass down. “What of you, Mister James?” His gaze moved to the ex-Mayor. “Do you have any objections?”

“Only that you’ll be playing a dangerous game, Mister Wayne,” Aubrey James crossed his arms. “It’s always better to leave dealing with organised crime to the police who are trained and prepared for such confrontations, I’ve always said.”

“Ah,” Bruce nodded. He turned towards the last member of the board, the only one who hadn’t spoken. A man from a family nearly as old as Bruce’s own, and whose name could only be overshadowed by _Wayne_.

“Colonel Jacob Kane?” he prompted his own uncle, the father of his cousin Kate. “You haven’t spoken, either.”

Kane didn’t move when all eyes in the room moved to him, his own gaze fixed on the window. After a moment, he stood up and walked over. His fingers tapped on the glass right over the burgundy house.

“It’s that one, isn’t it?” Kane said. “Sionis’s brothel.”

At the sound of the name being spoken aloud, James twitched. Bruce filed the information away, and gave Kane a shrug and an empty smile.

“The Commissioner will most likely be able to confirm it with more proof, Mister Kane,” Bruce said carefully. “But, as far as my sources tell me, you’re absolutely right.”

“I’ve met women like that before, during Vietnam,” the Colonel said, his voice thoughtful. “The circumstances were different, of course – the women were in their own country, for one – but I remember the look in their eyes.” He shook his head slightly. “Pitiful things, those eyes. Full of terror. Like they’re scared that you’re going to kill them at any moment.”

Distantly, Bruce wondered just what Colonel Jacob Kane would think of Ileana. Of a girl who couldn’t quite be described as “pitiful,” no matter how she seemed to prefer acting like a lifeless doll.

“We help them,” the Colonel said, dropping back into his seat with a solid _thump_. “I’m with Bruce on this one.”

Bruce inclined his head in thanks. Then he placed both hands on the table, and lifted himself to his feet. Just in time to stop whatever protests Monroe and Boyle and Stagg had right in their throats. He stepped out from behind his chair. His fingers skimmed the top of the table as he started walking, and settled on top of Monroe’s chair first.

“Her name is Ella,” he stated, using a tone like he was commenting on the weather. “Five feet six with brown hair and dark eyes, but with skin as pale as any well-bred girl.” He paused. “That’s why your son Jake likes her so much, Kathryn. He likes thinking that he’s desecrating one of those women you approve of as he’s covering himself in filth.”

The room had gone completely silent. Bruce patted the top of Monroe’s chair, and moved on to the next one. 

“Aurora,” he announced to Aubrey James. “Named as such for the red streaks in her hair. Dyed, of course, just for you, because you have a little fetish for redheads. Did you know, Aubrey, that she was brought here just for you? Well, you know _now_ , at least.”

Leather squeaked as he stroked his fingers over it. The next one.

“Your favourite is Jasmine,” he told Ferris Boyle. “Rich brown hair that you like to pull on while she’s on her knees. She wears rhinestones in her hair whenever you visit, Ferris, because you’ve never been foolish enough to buy her diamonds but you like to pretend you did. Unlike Aubrey over there, Sionis didn’t think you important enough to bring in a girl just because you wanted one. But you visit her often enough that it’s almost as if she _is_ , don’t you?”

Humming tunelessly under his breath, Bruce took another couple of steps. “No wonder you’re such good friends with Ferris, Simon,” he said. “Sometimes you like to visit Jasmine with him. How does it feel like to slide in on his leavings?” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Monroe choke on air. “Does it feel enough like fucking him?”

Lamond flinched when Bruce came close to him. Bruce pasted on a smile, supposedly kind and reassuring. “Your Alice is barely five feet tall,” he said. “Unfortunately, she doesn’t have blond hair, but she has a lot of blue dresses in her closet that she wears for you.” Pausing, he leaned down slightly just to hear the hitch of Lamond’s breath. “And you have very expensive tastes, David, so much so that a high-class whorehouse isn’t good enough for you. You prefer your own facilities. On the bed you share with your wife, perhaps?”

When he approached, Galavan lifted his head, and raised an eyebrow while meeting Bruce’s gaze. Bruce chuckled. “I’d like to say that you like Ariel, Theodore, just to hammer in how much Sionis likes his thematic naming. But you’re clean.” He cocked his head to the side. “Though I wonder, what does Gotham’s Mayor have to do in Metropolis to warrant _that_ many visits?”

The last one. Silver St Cloud was leaning back on her chair, her hands folded together on top of her knees. “It’s a pity for you, Silver,” Bruce murmured, “that no one quite figured out that there is a market for pliable boys as that for pliable girls.”

Her eyes lifted. “When did you grow a brain, Bruce?” she asked. 

“Mister Wayne,” Bruce corrected her, and did not answer. He approached the very last seat, having almost finished the circle around the boardroom table.

“That streak of bastard in you, Bruce,” Jacob Kane said, “comes from your mother.” His lips twitched. “I was wondering if those pesky Wayne genes had managed to drown them out.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Bruce inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment as it was meant from the one man who was and would always be allowed to use his first name even in this boardroom; the brother of the woman who had created the Foundation with her own hands.

He dropped back into his seat and folded his hands together. “I can practically hear your questions, you know,” he said. He pitched his voice even higher, turned the words mocking. “How dare he? Who are his sources?” He spread his hands out. “And, as Silver so succinctly put it, when did Bruce Wayne grow a brain?”

Leaning back further, he eyed the Foundation’s board. “With regards to the last question… Well, I was recently reminded of two things. Firstly, the fact that this board’s existence is predicated on the potential possibility that I might be kidnapped again.” The briefest hint of a smile sharp enough to bare his teeth. “I have stayed in Gotham for the past twenty years, ladies and gentlemen, and I don’t plan to leave again. Especially not involuntarily.”

Standing, he headed over to the window, aware of their eyes on him. He knew that he was skirting a very, very dangerous line here; that, by revealing that Bruce Wayne wasn’t an idiot, he ran the risk of being found out.

But that was what the contingency plans were for.

“Secondly… a few things happened recently that made me realise that I really should be doing far more, with what I have.” He reached up to his ear and tossed his head back. “Gentlemen, if you would?”

Overhead, the ceiling tiles cracked, _crashed_. St. Cloud shrieked, flinging herself back from her chair, as a form dressed in solid black dropped down to land in the middle of the boardroom table. Behind Bruce, visible to him out of the corner of his eyes, there was a flash of red, stark against duller blue.

“The answer to your first two questions, ladies and gentlemen,” Bruce said. “I believe they don’t require an introduction?”

Slowly, Batman rose to his full height. Which, Bruce thought, wasn’t exactly _much_ , because Dick never managed to match him. But the board members didn’t know that. 

“We are not at your beck and call,” the Bat’s voice modifier growled. “This is the only time, Wayne.”

“A favour,” Superman added, stepping into the room through the door because Clark was too polite to break the window even though Bruce had practically invited him to. His cape swept the ground. “In return to all that Mister Wayne has and will help us with.” He paused.

“There are many things a man with great resources and a strong conscience can do,” Superman continued, glowing blue eyes scanning the room. “Things that even those with powers cannot match.”

“You flatter me,” Bruce drawled. He placed a hand on his chest and executed a deep bow, slightly sardonic in the usual style of Bruce Wayne. “Thank you, gentlemen, for indulging my whims.”

Fingers on his chin. Bruce blinked, and tipped his head up. Clark’s eyes were fixed on him with the remote look of Superman, but his fingers were tapping on Bruce’s jaw. Bruce blinked again, his mind automatically identifying Morse code. It was also shrieking about the sheer warmth of Clark’s skin, but he ignored that part.

“We will leave it to you, Mister Wayne,” Superman was saying, “to ensure that those who are now terrified will find safety in a home again.”

“I,” Bruce swallowed. _We… need… to… talk…?_ Yes, Bruce agreed. He really did need to talk to Clark about the correct way about sending messages. “I am honoured by your trust.”

Superman nodded. His hand fell back to his side. Another moment, and then he was gone. When Bruce turned his head, he spotted the last sweep of black cape right as it vanished up the ceiling. He absentmindedly made a note to ask Alfred to get boxes of every type of cereal that Dick liked. Maybe that would be spoiling his son, but Dick deserved it for crouching in the vents for that long.

He took a deep breath. Settled himself back to business as he took the few steps back to his seat. “Do I have any objections?”

The board members looked at each other. Bruce knew that they were all waiting for someone else to ask him if he would inform the press about their – and in Monroe’s case, her family’s – “indiscretions.” But Jacob Kane interrupted them, chuckling as he leaned forward.

“Quite the coup d’etat,” the Colonel murmured. “No, Bruce, there are no further objections.”

“Good,” Bruce said, and stood. “Because I might have phrased it as a suggestion, ladies and gentlemen, but as you can tell by now…” He smiled, fully baring his teeth this time. “It was not.”

With that, he turned around and left the boardroom. He had barely managed to duck into the stairwell and switch on the video and audio scrambler on his phone when his earpiece crackled.

“Two things,” Dick’s voice said. “Okay, three. One, I can’t believe that I just fooled the bunch of them that I’m Batman while wearing literally _spandex_. Two, you’re such a dramatic bastard. Three…” He paused. “Did I just watch you being courted by Superman? What was _that_?”

Keeping his voice subvocal, Bruce asked, “Did you actually want to sweat yourself to death in armour up in the vents?” It was better than pointing out that Dick would drown in Bruce’s usual armoured suit, because Dick would then whine for the next three minutes about _genes_ and _unfair_ and _you’re too tall for life_. 

“Maybe you don’t know, Bruce, but spandex isn’t that great when it comes to breathability either,” Dick was now saying, voice dry. “And you’re not answering my actual question.”

_I don’t know_ , Bruce thought. He had to pause in racing down the stairs to simply lean his shoulder against the wall. Just a few minutes of brisk walking – not even a run – shouldn’t make him this out of breath. He dragged a hand down his face.

“Is he with you?” he asked.

“Nope,” Dick said. Bruce felt a strange flood of both relief and frustration, because Clark _had_ said he wanted to talk— “He said something about an earthquake in Mexico?”

“Mexico City,” Alfred cut in. “Most of the news are currently only on Twitter.”

Which meant that things had just started happening, and the sounds had reached Clark barely moments ago after travelling for miles. Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose with his knuckles.

“He said that he was going to wait for you just before he left,” Dick added helpfully. “He mentioned WayneTech?”

_WayneTech_? Bruce cocked his head to the side even as his breathing eased. Okay, so Clark’s “we need to talk” most likely had nothing to do with him deliberately putting his hands on Bruce. In fact… Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you just witnessed Superman’s inexperience with teamwork.”

“Huh?”

“Morse code.” 

“ _Seriously_?” Dick yelped, far too loud. Then he seemed to realise that Bruce was listening to a communicator that was literally inside his ear canal, because he lowered his voice. “He Morse coded your _face_?”

Technically, it was the underside of his jaw. With his little finger and using his palm to hide what he was doing. Bruce leaned a bit harder against the wall and levelled out his breathing carefully. “Morse code is not a verb,” he said.

“That’s literally the least wrong thing about what I said,” Dick pointed out. He took a breath. “Also, just in case you were distracted by _Superman Morse coding your face_ , I’m pretty sure the Foundation’s board now thinks that Bruce Wayne is getting screwed six ways to Sunday by Superman. Especially now that you pretty much ran away like you’re going after him.”

Bruce reminded himself that, when he came up with this part of the plan, it was because of the inevitability of his ownership of the land the team’s headquarters laid on would become obvious, and it was better to ensure that Gotham’s most powerful had proof that he wasn’t Batman. Clark’s little stunt, ending up with all of those people paying far, far more attention to Superman and Bruce Wayne than Batman and Bruce Wayne, was _unexpected_ , to say the least.

He dragged his hand down his face again. This was why he preferred working alone, dammit.

“Sionis will have to be rid of, and quickly, because he’s the only one who would pose any threat to Clark if any of those bastards tell him what they saw,” Bruce said. “And they will tell him.”

“Uh, I’m talking more about the risk to _you_ ,” Dick said.

“Bruce Wayne gets kidnapping threats on a regular basis,” he said distractedly, mind already running ways in which he could get rid of Sionis permanently without killing him. Getting Clark to put the fear in the man wasn’t going to work anymore; Sionis would just take that as _incentive_. “Plus, it’s not as if he has a reputation for being anywhere near straight.”

“No, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, definitely sounding amused. “You definitely don’t. No matter what that says about the possibilities of the next generation of Waynes.”

“Dick exists,” Bruce pointed out.

“Thanks, dad,” Dick drawled, voice wry. “For acknowledging my existence. But I’m still not changing my surname. I like being a Grayson, and ‘Grayson-Wayne’ just sounds ugly.”

“Go fight over this with Agent A,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes even though he knew that neither of them could see it. “I need to get to the car. Also, Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“If you meet him again, and talk to him properly, call him Clark.”

“Sure,” Dick said. Then, because it was Dick, he added in a stage whisper: “I can’t believe Superman is going to be my stepdad.”

“Dick, _no_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I absolutely pissed off about the treatment of Martha and Lois in both _Dawn of Justice_ and _Justice League_? Yep. I mean, I can totally understand the desire to show Martha and Lois grieving, but to take away the basic tenets of their characters’ capabilities – Martha’s handling of the farm, Lois’s writing for the _Planet_ – just to show that, _after_ a whole movie in which nothing they did changed the situation and they were literally non-stop damsels in distress?
> 
> That’s just _terrible writing_ from people actually paid a lot of money to do that shit. And it’s a double standard, because they managed to show _Bruce_ grieving just fine without also showing him stuck doing absolutely nothing.
> 
> Lois’s age is based on Amy Adams’s. She really is nine years older than Henry Cavill. In fact, Lois Lane has traditionally been older than Clark Kent. I don’t care if this isn’t canon in DCEU, I’m keeping it.
> 
> Characters on the Wayne Enterprise board are all shamelessly stolen from the _Gotham_ TV series (James, Monroe, Lamond, Galavan) or the comics (St. Cloud, Kane). Characterisations are pretty much distorted for my own purpsoes; I’m just using their names.
> 
> (Am I deliberately not addressing the plot twist? Yep.)
> 
> Also, I generally don't ask for this but... For those of you with time, would you please comment? My motivation for writing this fic has dried up suddenly. Though I have until Chapter 9 done (and unedited), my posting schedule will still stay the same, but that's not going to last if I don't get my motivation back. Please, please tell me what you like and what you think, if it's not too much trouble. Thank you, and iluall.


	7. wiring (the electricity)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightwing helps Clark Kent understand those who eat cake instead of bread. Bruce and Clark have a picnic while surrounded by exposed wires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: warped morality due to having to deal with rich power brokers. Second scene: detailed depiction of the activities of human trafficking rings, including mentions of rape and dehumanisation.

He could have flown. It would have been faster, if he had flown, and perhaps by this time he would’ve gotten the whole conversation over with if he had. But the last time Clark had a proper conversation with Bruce, he had arrived at the Wayne estate on bike. And maybe it was stupid of him to think of the bicycle as a lucky charm to ensure that they didn’t start fighting again, but Clark would take whatever he could, at this point.

Too much hung on what they were planning and doing for Clark to risk their working relationship by being angry.

Swinging himself off his bike near the edge of the property, Clark pushed it the last few steps up to the gate. He pressed the bell and tugged his lips up into a smile he didn’t feel for the camera overhead.

This time, there was no greeting. No sound except for the squeak of the gate’s hinges as it swung open. Clark hesitated for a moment, wondering if the silence was some kind of sign, some kind of message that, despite the open gate, he wasn’t entirely welcome. He chewed on his lip for a moment, eyeing the camera, before he sighed. There was no way for him to find out unless he actually went in.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the lake house had the privacy screens switched on, tinted black enough that Clark couldn’t see anything without using his powers. The air was so quiet that the movement of the lake’s water was loud enough to echo in Clark’s ears. He left his bicycle at the bottom of the steps, took a deep breath, and knocked.

Whirring. A _click,_ like a lock drawing back. Nothing else. Finally, Clark gave up and stretched out his hearing. There was one heartbeat inside the house, the rhythm strange; not Bruce, or even Alfred. Clark stifled the instinctive surge of panic. He took another breath before he rested his hand on the door’s handle. Pushed it down. It opened.

Was… Was Bruce getting _robbed_? No, that couldn’t be. Clark had never actually looked at it properly, but he was sure that Bruce was pretty damned paranoid about the security of his own house. There was no way that anyone could have broken in—

“Won’t you just come in already?”

Clark blinked. He _knew_ that voice. It was a lot calmer than he had heard it last, the words sharply enunciated instead of slurring together in a mad rush, but… He stepped into the house, staring blankly at Dick Grayson standing there at the end of the entrance hall, dressed in an old t-shirt and ragged shorts and rubbing a towel through his hair.

“B isn’t in,” Grayson informed him, blue eyes peering at Clark from beneath a mass of wet strands. “Alfred’s out, too.”

“Oh,” Clark said intelligently. He had thought of the possibility that Bruce wouldn’t be in, of course, but he had also checked for sounds of the Bat’s activities around Gotham, and had found none. It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to guess that Bruce would be in the lake house given that he wasn’t out on patrol. 

He chewed on his lip. “I can, uh… I can come back later?” 

Grayson looked at him for a long moment. There was a piercing light in his eyes that was so reminiscent of Bruce that Clark almost gave into the urge to squirm. “Or you can stay here until he arrives,” he said finally, turning around and heading further into the house. “I don’t think Bruce would mind.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Clark protested immediately, but his feet were already shucking off his shoes and following Grayson.

“It’s more convenient for him this way,” Grayson said. “He won’t have to call you and then wait around until you arrive again.” He paused, and looked over his shoulder at Clark. “Because if you leave and come back, you’ll be doing it on that bike, right?”

He should be used to being seen through so easily, Clark thought, given how often Bruce had done it to him. But it still felt like needles pricking into his invulnerable flesh. Clark ducked his head down and toyed with the strap of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. He chewed on his own lip for a moment before he shrugged. “Doesn’t seem right to arrive any other way, even if…”

“Even if…?” Grayson repeated, prompting.

Clark shook his head. What he had to say concerned Bruce, and only Bruce; even if Grayson was his son, it didn’t seem right to talk to him about what Lois had found. “Why are you here anyway? I thought you live in Bludhaven?”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed for a moment before his expression cleared, an easy smile curving up his lips as he flopped down onto one of the living room’s couches. “I don’t have to be back until tomorrow, so I thought I’d explore this house properly.” Propping his heels up on the coffee table, he shrugged. “Bruce would’ve been here, but he’s been busy with something in particular lately.”

That was definitely a hint, Clark thought. He headed over to one of the armchairs, sitting gingerly at the edge and toying with the strap of his bag again. “I don’t think it’s something that I can talk to you about,” he said. Grayson definitely knew about Bruce being Batman – what with him dressing himself up in the suit and all – but Clark still didn’t know how much Bruce allowed him to know.

“Kind of,” Clark hedged.

“Alright,” Grayson said. “How were things in Mexico City?”

Despite himself, Clark flinched. Even now, even after three showers and more than a few hours since he had left the city, he could still smell the stench of smoke and blood lingering on his skin; could still hear the terrified shrieks and screams embedded in his mind. He knew that he had done his best; had shoved away all thoughts of Bruce and what he needed to talk to him about to concentrate on his job as Superman, but…  
__  
But there were still so many who died. So many he couldn’t save, because they were already dead when he got to them. So many whose heartbeats he had to listen to while they faded away.  
_  
_ He rubbed a hand over his eyes. _An ambulance at the bottom of the cliff,_ he thought to himself bitterly, and tried to paste on a smile. “It went as things like that usually do,” he said. “The rescue workers and the government have things well in hand, now.” He wouldn’t have left otherwise.

“Mm,” Grayson nodded. There was a moment of contemplative silence, punctuated by the squeak of leather as Grayson rocked back and forth on the couch. Of all the things Clark had expected from Bruce’s kid, a tendency towards _restlessness_ hadn’t been it.

But it seemed to fit Grayson, nonetheless.

“Have you seen that thing he keeps in the Cave?” 

When Clark jerked his head up to stare at him, Grayson’s eyes were solemn. There was only one _thing_ that deserved being referred to that way. Clark nodded.

For the briefest of moments, Grayson’s eyes widened. Clark was left to wonder if he had imagined that look of disbelief and, oddly enough, _realisation,_ before that smile was back, stretching far enough to show a glint of teeth. “I was the first one who wore that uniform,” he said. “The first Robin.”

Clark had heard of that name before. A few mentions, here and there, of Batman’s partner, a young boy who had fought by his side; one who was just as much of an urban legend and phantom as his supposed mentor. The articles that talked about it had mostly been about how Batman was irresponsible and reckless to bring a child along, and Clark had agreed with those remarks.  
_  
_ Now, looking at Grayson, taking in for the corded muscles of his shoulders, barely hidden beneath his thin t-shirt, and his relaxed posture on the couch that belied a coiled tension within that hinted that he could immediately jump up and into a fight at any moment’s notice… Now, knowing that the Robin who had worn that desecrated uniform in the Cave had died, but the first one had survived and who saw Bruce as his father… Clark didn’t know what to think.

“Oh,” he said again.

“I didn’t mention that because I want more of your respect,” Grayson said, raising one leg so his heel rested on the couch and wrapping his hands around his knee. His eyes were steady on Clark as he continued, “I mentioned it because I can tell that you’re here to talk to Bruce about something important, and I want you to know that you can talk to me about it, too.”

Clark hesitated. Then he looked down at his bag, thumbing the clasp open and withdrawing the file that Lois had brought him. It was made of thin plastic, the back of it blue; it resembled any other file, with no hints of that the papers inside spoke of something that threatened to tear Clark entirely apart.

Breathing through his teeth, he flipped through it again. Perhaps it would be an invasion of privacy to talk to Grayson about this. Perhaps it would mean that Bruce would be angry with him, and whatever tenuous threads that were between them would have to be woven again. But, right now, Clark felt like he was going to shake out of his skin, and he wanted – _needed_ – something to occupy his mind, something he could do, that wouldn’t remind him of Mexico City.

And maybe Grayson might actually give him what he needed, something that was so stupid that Clark couldn’t even bear to put a name to it.

He placed the file on the coffee table, and slid it forward. When Grayson caught his gaze, he nodded. He tried to settle back into the chair as Grayson picked the file up, flipped it open, and started to read.

“Yeah,” Grayson said. He placed the file back onto the table, and pushed it back to Clark. “I know about this.” He paused, and gave Clark a crooked smile. “WayneTech has been supplying criminal syndicates with their electronic security measures since the heyday of Falcone and Maroni twenty years ago.”

Of all the possible answers Clark thought he could receive, this had not been on the list. “What?” he choked out.

Grayson cocked his head to the side. “It’s not just in Metropolis. WayneTech supplies Sionis – Roman Sionis, currently the head honcho of Gotham’s underworld – with their security measures, too. Not to mention the some of the richer crooks in Bludhaven.”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Hissed out his exhale through his teeth in some desperate measure for calm. But: “He’s _helping_ them,” he blurted out. Not just that, Bruce was making money off them. “How could he… _Why_ —”

“If Bruce doesn’t sell, Mannheim and Sionis and their ilk would’ve just gone to GothCorp,” Grayson interrupted, his voice flat. “And then Batman would’ve had to hack into Ferris Boyle’s records of sale to figure out what the criminals are using instead of having that knowledge right at his fingertips.”

“I… what?”

“Batman can’t actually break into anything and everything all the time,” Dick said, his lips twitching slightly. “The reason why he can do that is because most people buy WayneTech when it comes to their security.” Not unreasonable, Clark thought distantly. The last he heard, WayneTech was the market leader, with an ownership of the large majority of the market shares. “This way,” Grayson continued, “Bruce can control what the criminals use, and develop hardware that can break into what is, technically, his own stuff.”

He folded his hands on top of his knees, and leaned in. “But I don’t think that’s what really bothering you, right, Clark?”

 _Of course it was_ , Clark wanted to protest. He wanted to look away from those piercing blue eyes that, despite the colour, reminded him so much of Bruce’s. He wanted to stop being so damned _transparent_ to people around him.

“How can he…” he licked his lips, looking away to stare at one of the darkened windows. “How can he bear to make money from people like that when he… when he knows exactly where _their_ money comes from?”

Grayson spread out his arms. “The same reason why he can bear to have people like _that_ on the Foundation’s board of directors, Clark,” he said, voice very soft.

Clark closed his eyes. He had been trying to not think about it; about the information he had helped Bruce get. The records of all of those girls, and how they had been used and abused by the rich and powerful men of Gotham. That clean, prettily-painted house in Gotham’s uptown island, so much like a home owned by an upper-middle class family but which was instead something even worse than the broken-down buildings Ramona was forced to live in.

Something must have shown on his face, because Grayson sighed, leaning back against the couch again. “I can tell you that the money from those particular sales go straight to the Foundation, channelled specifically to the organisations that helps the people that criminal syndicates harm, but I don’t think it will convince you.”

“No,” Clark said, swallowing. “It won’t.”

“Figured,” Grayson said. His voice was still quiet, and there was still that light in his eyes, like he was looking at Clark and peeling him apart, examining each piece that fell into his hands. “It’s… I don’t know it very well – you have to ask Bruce himself, or Alfred, for the whole story – but from what I have put together from my own research, he just used the hand he was dealt the best he could.”

“Huh?” How could… how could surrounding himself with people like that, allowing them to even have the most minor of say in the ways people they hurt were helped… be anything that could be described as _best_?

“From the time when he was twelve until when he was twenty-four, Bruce wasn’t in Gotham,” Grayson said. Clark nodded, because he had read passingly about that, too – it was mentioned on Bruce’s Wikipedia article. “Alfred was the legal executor of the Wayne assets, but that only lasted until Bruce was eighteen – after that, Alfred technically had no say in how the assets were handled. That was also the time when Gotham was mostly overrun with organised crime.”

Clark’s eyes widened.

“Yeah,” Grayson nodded. “By the time Bruce came back, Wayne Enterprises went from a wholly private company to one that was publicly listed, and a lot of its shares were owned by people with criminal connections.” His lips curled up into a mirthless smile. “Carmine Falcone was even one of the majority shareholders.”

“But Bruce is still the owner, right?” Clark asked. “The company carries his _name_. He should be able to just replace the board members.”

“Not when Wayne Enterprises was failing, and what had been propping it up had been the dirty money that mobsters were using the company to launder,” Grayson said, voice wry. “Not when Bruce was trying to make sure that people still thought him stupid while trying to clean up his company and make sure that it started prospering again.”

Running a hand through his hair, Grayson shook his head again. “Besides, you can’t force people to sell the shares they legally bought,” he said. “Throwing Falcone and Maroni into jail only got rid of the two of them. Those who have connections with them and whose money can’t be legally proven to be dirty… Bruce had to let them stay, because it was the law.” He paused. “Most people aren’t stupid enough to make their entire fortunes on bribes.”

“But that’s…” Clark started. He stopped, rubbing his knuckles over his mouth for a moment, thinking. “But that just covers Wayne Enterprises. The Foundation is separate, right?”

“There are only so many filthy rich people in Gotham,” Grayson said, voice wry. “And, well, since a lot of them dabbled in crime, it’s…” He sighed. “It’s good PR for them to throw money into reputable charity organisations. It gives them something to point to if the media starts throwing up proof or rumours of their more unsavoury activities.”

What was it that woman in that glittering dress had said? _Directly going against Trump would win us a great number of hearts in the city._ Bruce had come up with the idea of how the organisation could help people like Ramona, but all she saw of it was gaining approval of people through politics. And Galavan, Gotham’s _Mayor_ , had even started talking about gaining more power for his office – for himself – right afterwards.

Clark’s head dropped into his hands. He dug his knuckles between his eyes. “I’m starting to see why his first reaction to my existence was to try to kill me,” he muttered. How could he expect Bruce to believe that his own intentions were good when Bruce was surrounded by so many selfish people who had more power than they ever deserved to hold?

“Uh,” Grayson said. When Clark peered out through his half-lidded lashes, he saw that Grayson was gaping at him. “Okay, I kind of figured that he would’ve thought of trying to kill you, but… he actually did? Seriously?”

“That’s kind of how we met?” Clark tried to shrug. “Not for the first time. Or the second time.” The second time he met Bruce, he wrecked his goddamned car and told him to stop doing what he had spent his entire life working on. Which, he reflected now, wasn’t exactly a good first impression to make. “But, like, that was the first time we actually had a conversation?”

Grayson’s eyebrow rose all the way up to his hairline. “That was your first conversation,” he repeated. “And then right after that…”

“I went out of commission,” Clark shrugged. When Grayson continued to stare at him, obviously askance, he said, “That’s kind of why I’m trying to get to know him?”

Now he knew more. And though he wished he could condemn Bruce entirely for what he had done, for all those he allowed to have a hand in helping those who were helpless, Clark couldn’t—

Pieces of information snapped together again in Clark’s head. His eyes went wide, and he slumped back hard into his chair.

Lois had _known_ about this. She had known exactly the reasons why Bruce would be providing Mannheim with his electronic security measures. There was no way Lois wouldn’t have known: she had practically cornered the _Planet’s_ market on investigative journalism and, before Superman’s appearance, she had specialised in finding out the uses and abuses of power by those who had a lot of it. In fact, hadn’t she received that assignment to find the scout ship because she had wanted to make sure governments didn’t try to hide its existence from the world?

 _Truth is relative_ , she had told him, slightly more than a month and what seemed like a whole lifetime ago. _There are facts, and those are objective, but… How people view those facts distorts them, and you can’t ever get to those facts without the lenses of at least one person’s perspective._

Clark couldn’t blame Bruce, because he now saw that the world looked very different from through Bruce’s eyes. Because there was so much that Clark still didn’t know, so much he never had a chance to figure out, despite all of his powers and all of those years he had spent travelling the world. Maybe so much he didn’t know _because_ of his powers and the years he had spent walking, isolated even as he was surrounded by people.

Though he wondered if that wasn’t a better option, given that now he was surrounded by people who insisted on telling him things, _changing_ him, without ever saying that they were doing so, much less warning him beforehand. Truth to be told, it was getting a little annoying.

“Uh, Clark?” Grayson was staring at him, leaning forward and brows creased with what was likely worry. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, dropping his hands. He tried for a smile. “Thanks for telling me all that.”

“Well, it’s something I never thought I’d do,” Grayson said, folding his hands together and stretching them upwards as he straightened. “Explain Bruce to someone else, I mean. Never thought he would ever let anyone close enough for there to ever be a need.”

Clark’s mind immediately skittered away from the implications of those words, from the insinuations tucked away in the curve of Grayson’s smile. He cleared his throat and asked, instead, “How do you deal with it?”

“Huh?” Grayson blinked.

“With seeing all of that, with knowing all of that,” Clark waved a hand, knowing that he was articulating himself badly, not worthy of a writer at all, but not being to find any other words.

Grayson seemed to understand, nonetheless, because he slumped back down and sighed. “I don’t do it very well,” he admitted. When Clark blinked, he gave him a wry smile. “No cop likes the fact that, despite all the effort we put in to catch a perp and gather the most water-tight evidence, the perp still ends up going free because the witnesses were threatened, the judge was bribed, or some bullshit like that.”

Biting his lip, Clark nodded.

“But it’s like what Bruce used to say,” Grayson continued. “We’re all confined by the roles we are given to play. There are some things we can change directly… but for others? We can only hope for the best.”

“That’s not true,” Clark blurted out.

Cocking an eyebrow, Grayson looked at him. Clark rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t know how to fix a crooked judiciary system, but it’s like… Let’s take an example of a burning building, right?” He ducked his head down. “As Superman, I can walk in and rescue someone trapped, but I won’t be able to make sure that another fire doesn’t start up.” Nothing but an ambulance. He pushed past the thought. “But someone like Bruce could, I don’t know, lobby for greater fire safety measures? Help to make sure that those buildings don’t become fire hazards?”

During his halting speech, Grayson was starting to tilt his head to the side. By the time Clark stopped, his posture seemed nearly unnatural. Clark blinked. “What?”

“That’s what you two are doing, right?” Grayson asked. “Working together?”

“Kind of?” Clark tried shrugging again. “Bruce is doing most of the heavy-lifting so far,” in fact, as far as Clark could tell, Bruce was the one doing pretty much _everything_ , “so I don’t know if we’re actually working together or if he’s helping me.”

Grayson made a noise in his throat, something close to affirmation but with an odd lilt to it. His gaze continued to fix on Clark. “So… Does that have anything to do with how, you know, you pretty much Morse coded his face?”

“What?” Clark jerked his head up. “That was… I was trying to give him a message!” And it really couldn’t have waited until Bruce had left the boardroom, because Clark was already starting noises coming from the direction of Mexico City; sounds that would eventually coalesced into screams.

“Why his _face_?” Grayson asked.

“Because anywhere else would either be worse or draw suspicions,” Clark replied automatically. It was true, he knew; tapping Bruce on the shoulder would just look strange, because he would have to linger there for a long time. If he went for Bruce’s back…That would _definitely_ be worse.

“Okay,” Grayson nodded. “But you know, you could’ve just…” He spread out his hands. “Sent a text? Later?”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. He ran a hand over his hair and gave Grayson a sheepish smile. “I… Uh. I didn’t think of it at the time?” He waved a hand to the file. “This seemed pretty urgent.”

“Uh huh,” Grayson said.

There was a flush creeping up from his shoulders. Clark scratched the back of his neck again. “Why did you ask anyway?”

“I think that’s one of the answers in which Bruce would really rather I not give,” Grayson said. His smile widened enough to show his teeth. “So, I’ll just say that, because of this, I’m going to come over to Gotham as often as I can.”

“That’s, uh,” Clark tried to wrap his mind about this new piece of information. “That’s good, I think? Bruce would be glad about it.”

“He’ll try to chase me away,” Grayson said. He folded his hands and dropped his chin on top of them. “But you’ll stop him from doing that, right, Clark?”

Something was going on that Clark had no idea about, and he was starting to get this deep urge to shift and fidget under Grayson’s gaze. He coughed lightly and picked up the file, shoving it into his bag before standing up. “I’ve intruded into his affairs enough, I think,” he said. “It’s… not a good idea for me to do more.”

“I don’t think he would mind if you continue _interfering_ , actually,” Grayson said, and Clark had _no idea_ why he was curling that particular word around his voice in that insinuating way. “But…” He laughed, standing up as well. “It’s really up to you.”

Were they having two completely separate conversations? They seemed to be having two entirely different conversations. Clark resisted the urge to rub his face over his hands.

“Right, uh,” Clark said, and he shouldered his messenger bag higher even though he didn’t need to. “I’ll… just be going, then.”

“You’re not going to wait for him to come back?”

“I need time to process everything you just said,” Clark replied, and hoped like hell that the back of his neck wasn’t nearly as red as it felt like. “I’ll talk to him the next time I see him.”

“Sure,” Grayson nodded. He shoved his hands into his pocket, and his grin turned just a bit lopsided. “I think he’s definitely waiting for that talk. Given your _urgency_ when requesting for one.”

They were _definitely_ having two separate conversations, and Clark really didn’t want to know the details of the one Grayson was having. He nodded and headed for the door. It took him quite a bit of self-control to not start running. 

When he was outside, looking up to the grey Gotham night sky as he swung onto his bicycle, he heard Grayson starting to giggle to himself. He very determinedly stopped himself from wondering _why_. And no, Kent, avoiding Bruce’s son wouldn’t be a good idea when they were working together.

Luckily, the gate opened without him having to touch anything. He didn’t think he could stand touching anything of Bruce’s when his fingers were tingling with the memory of Bruce’s heat against the tips.

***

Bruce landed the helicopter at the corner of the lot with barely a glance at the controls. Alfred would likely scold him for it, but his attention was captivated by the sight of Clark – dressed in his ugly brown coat with his paisley tie floating – putting the last steel beam of what would become the main building into its place, setting it with the others with a blaze of heat vision. As he switched off the helicopter’s motor and stepped out, he told himself that the speeding up of his heart rate was due to his satisfaction that the building of the headquarters was finally getting underway.

Clark landed next to him, the toes of his leather shoes brushing away blades of grass before he stood on solid ground. The bright noon sun cast blue highlights into his dark hair, which had been ruffled by the wind away from both Superman’s slicked back style and Clark Kent’s neat curls. Bruce filed that information away and told himself to pay less attention to Clark’s hair.

“Arthur left a message,” Clark said, waving a piece of paper in Bruce’s direction. “He says that he’s not going to help with building until we have the wires up and covered.”

“Probably because he might end up electrocuting himself by just breathing near them,” Bruce said. He plucked the paper from Clark’s hand, reading through it. Clark’s summary was accurate, he noted, but very much censored. “Barry won’t be dropping by either, because the Speed Force generates electricity whenever he uses it.”

“Oh,” Clark said. “It’ll be just us, Diana, and Victor for this particular step, then?”

“Only the two of us,” Bruce corrected, and violently squashed down the childish thrill that ran down his spine at the idea of _us_. Clark didn’t mean anything by it, he was sure. “I’ve brought the equipment,” he jerked a thumb behind him in the direction of the helicopter, “and the plans for the locations of the boxes, lighting, and switches have been sketched out as well.” He pulled out the large canvas sheet from where it had been folded and tucked into the waistband of his canvas pants. 

Taking the plans, Clark peered at them, brows furrowing. “Shouldn’t a meter be included somewhere?”

“A meter is only useful if we’re using electricity from the city,” Bruce shook his head. The utilities people would need it to know how much each building needed to be billed. “But we have our own generator.”

Clark lowered the paper, looking around him. “What’s the generator going to use?”

Bruce reminded himself that Clark had needed time to come to terms with being on a team; that rushing him hadn’t been a good idea and still wasn’t. That it wasn’t Clark’s fault that he didn’t know what was going on, because being part of something after being resigned to isolation for years – or decades – was incredibly overwhelming.

But his eyebrow still twitched slightly as he said, “Arthur dug a tunnel northwest, towards Hob’s River.” This particular suburb was but a few miles away from Newtown of Metropolis, which meant that Hob’s was the closest body of water. “Victor has been working on the generator to increase its efficiency. If that doesn’t work, I’m buying solar panels and hooking that to the generator as well.”

“Oh,” Clark said. He peered at Bruce from behind those ugly, thick-rimmed glasses. “That’s something I probably should’ve already known, huh?”

“You’re here,” Bruce said. It was a lot easier to make that sound meaningful when he was talking to Clark, when he was looking into those heterochromatic eyes with the awareness that Clark was in danger of having his thoughts chase their own tails, instead of just convincing himself. “Any chance of you unloading the equipment from the ‘copter?”

“Sure,” Clark said, voice light. “That’s what I’m good for. The manual labour.”

The notion was ridiculous enough that Bruce didn’t even deign it worthy of a verbal reply: he just rolled his eyes, tipping his head up to the sky for good measure. Clark laughed, the sound sudden and stuttering out of him like it was entirely unexpected. Bruce practically threw himself into the helicopter through the pilot door to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Where do you want the stuff?” Clark asked. He had gathered up everything, and didn’t even sound the slightest bit strained. It would have been annoying if it wasn’t expected.

“Just dump them somewhere,” Bruce said, his voice slightly muffled from where he was poking his head into the compartment between the pilot’s and passenger’s seats. He pulled back once his fingers had hooked around the basket that he had had to practically beg Alfred to pack and jumped back down onto the ground. 

He waited until Clark had dropped the wires and outlet boxes and tools onto a spot a distance away from both the main building and the future underground hangar before he said, “We’re going to have a business lunch first.”

Clark froze for a moment. Just stopped there, body halfway to straightening, arms still curved inward. Bruce watched him and didn’t say a word, but he acknowledged that his suspicions had been right. The fact that he was here during what was supposed to be reporter Clark Kent’s lunch breaks, that the remote and battery-powered cameras set up around the site had been registering Clark’s presence during this time for the past few days, only cemented the theory that Clark had been deliberately missing lunch. 

It hadn’t been difficult to figure out. Bruce knew exactly how much a junior reporter at the _Daily Planet_ would make, and given that Clark was both a filial son and a good boyfriend who wouldn’t want his partner to pay for his rent, there was no way he could pay for Ramona’s “interviewing fees” without taking it out of his meal budget. 

Bruce wasn’t exactly blind; he was aware that Clark would react aversely – to say the least – if Bruce was obviously trying to help him. He also knew that, technically, Clark didn’t need to eat. But he had to try, nonetheless. 

“Alfred packed the food,” he added when Clark didn’t speak for a while. “I didn’t touch any of it, so it’s not poisonous.”

“Don’t we have to finish this by today?” Clark asked, still not looking at him.

“There isn’t a deadline,” Bruce said. He headed over to a particularly flat patch of grass, distant enough from Clark to give him space but close enough that Bruce could meet his eyes. “Besides, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Is this about me coming over last night?” Clark asked.

Bruce pulled out the picnic blanket from the basket. Technically, it wasn’t one, more like a repurposed tarp that had been cut into a size that would resemble a picnic blanket, but was still bright green, but it would do. He spread it out on the grass and folded his legs, dropping down to sit on his calves before he looked at Clark. 

“No,” he said. Dick had told him about the visit; that Clark had come storming in about Bruce Wayne’s business dealings with crime syndicates; that Dick had tried his best to explain. There really wasn’t much else to say about that. “It’s about the human trafficking ring.”

Clark blinked. He sat down abruptly next to Bruce, and his hand opened when Bruce took the chance to shove a sandwich at him. “What about it?”

( _“They threw us into this house. I couldn’t see it from the outside – it was dark when we got out of the van, and every time I tried to look around they’d slap me. But I remember the inside. Square box of concrete, without any windows. Wooden screens separating the space into cubicles. One lightbulb and one bed in each. The bed had stirrups. The doctors came to check us, and they spoke in what I think is Turkish to each other.”_

_“What were the doctors checking you for?”_

_“For our teeth. Our scars. The straightness of our legs.”_

_“You’re thinking about something.”_

_“Just remembering. My parents used to own horses – just a couple, stored in a stable some miles from the city. When the doctor was touching me, checking me over, I kept thinking about the first time I saw a vet check over a new horse. It was almost exactly the same.”_

_“I—”_

_“Don’t fucking tell me that you’re sorry.”_

_“Alright.”_

_“They were checking us for virginity, too. And how pliant we would be. I was one of the smart ones, I didn’t fight. Some of the other girls did. I heard them trying to fight the doctors off. Some of them were shouting, screaming curses. Russian and Romanian and Italian, I think. Others I don’t recognise. Those were the dumb ones.”_

_“Why were they dumb?”_

_“Because fighting ended up with them being raped pretty much immediately. And I think… I think they were taken to places that are not nearly as nice as this one. I heard some of the men talking. They didn’t know I can understand a bit of Turkish, so they were talking around my cubicle. They said something about… about separating the stock.”_

_“You don’t have to keep going.”_

_“Shut the fuck up. They… There was so much screaming. There was so much fucking screaming.”_ )

“Both Sionis and Mannheim use the same source,” Bruce summarised. “The operations are international, so we might be dealing with more than one ring here.”

Clark raised the sandwich to his mouth, taking a bite and chewing on it. As Bruce busied his hands with pouring out some juice, Clark said, “You’re not telling me everything.”

“I don’t think you want to know the lurid details,” Bruce replied, keeping his voice even. He placed a plain white mug in front of Clark, balancing it carefully on the blanket. “It might make you lose your appetite.”

“But you’re thinking about it,” Clark pointed. “I can tell.”

Bruce gave him a tight smile. He took a sandwich from the basket, and bit into one corner. He chewed. “Immunity,” he said once he had swallowed. “I’ve been dealing with stuff like this for a long time.”

Shoving the whole sandwich into his mouth, Clark frowned. He must, Bruce thought, be hungrier than even he himself had realised. Bruce nudged the basket closer, and watched as Clark took another one without even seeming to realise that he was doing it.

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Bruce shrugged. “I’m giving you a reason why I’m not telling you everything.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. His incredulity would be more convincing if he wasn’t chewing. He swallowed. “You still haven’t told me what that is.”

Widening his smile, Bruce said, “I can compartmentalise.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “And I’ll give you more details when you can do the same.” 

( _“They took me. I wasn’t one of the dumb ones who fell for their tricks. They_ took _me.”_

_“How?”_

_“I was in Greece, backpacking alone. It was my graduation trip. I read the travel guides and I booked good hotels on the good islands, the ones with a lot of tourists so no one would dare try anything. I was on Kythera, the Neraida Waterfalls. It was night, and maybe that was my mistake. But I did my research and I thought— how could I have expected— how could I—”_

_“What happened?”_

_“A man offered to take my picture for me. When I offered him my phone, he ran away. I chased him to one of the secluded areas. Three other men were waiting. They knocked me out.”_

_“Did you manage to get your phone back?”_

_“The funny thing is, I did. For the first few days, they would put the phone in my hand. My wrists were bound and a gun was held to my head. They made me to write emails to my parents telling them that I was safe. I tried… I tried to write some sort of code to tell my parents what was happening, but they were smart. They could read Romanian, and they checked over my email and edited the lines before they forced me to press send.”_ )

It wasn’t a surprise, Bruce told himself, that Clark hadn’t spoken for a long time. This was a lot to take it; saving people from earthquakes and burning buildings wasn’t easy, but at least that was natural disasters or accidents or, at worst, the act of one or a few malicious humans. This involved entire groups of humans calculating ways to treat other humans worse than animals.

He took a breath. Put the sandwich down. He should eat more himself, but he had lost his appetite. 

“There is one possible lead,” he said. “My source told me that she sent a few emails as she was being transported. She gave me the email address she had used. If I trace her location when the emails are sent, then there is a possibility of finding a route that they used.”

“How long ago was this?” Clark asked, now digging into the basket. Luckily, Bruce had asked Alfred to pack more than just sandwiches, and the look on Clark’s face when he found the wrapped slice of key lime pie was definitely worth the dignity sacrificed.

“Two years ago,” Bruce said.

“What are the chances that they would’ve changed their route since then?” Clark asked, peeling the clingfilm away.

“Pretty high,” Bruce admitted. It really wasn’t much of a lead, if he was being honest. Despite all of the time he had spent with her, despite running the risk of exposing Matches Malone’s cover, Ileana hadn’t told him anything particularly useful.

Still, he didn’t think the time he had spent was a waste. It had been important, and still was, to hear her story from her own lips.

“We have two possible courses of action right now,” Bruce said. “Firstly, we follow my source’s lead to try to plot out a route. I can ask Victor if he can pull out the satellite images of vans or trucks that regularly take this route, check if they end up somewhere in Turkey,” Istanbul itself, Bruce suspected, “and follow that trail down to find the base of operations.” 

“What’s the second choice?”

Bruce took a deep breath. “The second choice is that we break into Sionis’s house to find records of transactions between him and his source,” he said.

The furrow between Clark’s brows deepened. “Are you sure he would’ve kept such records?” he asked. “It seems to be… pretty careless.”

“Care _ful_ ,” Bruce corrected. “Sionis will have these records in hardcopy so they can’t be accessed electronically.” _Just like the records of the visits to the brothel_ , he didn’t say. “But he would’ve kept them. Whether it is for leverage against his source, or as a future bargaining chip against the police if he’s caught and his lawyers can’t bail him out… Either way, he would keep them. And he would keep them with him, in his own apartment, since he wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with documents that can ruin him.”

“His apartment, which is probably secured using WayneTech equipment?” Clark asked, tone so casual that it was obviously forced.

Pausing in the middle of bringing his own mug – filled with coffee instead of juice – to his lips, Bruce nodded. “Yes.” He didn’t avoid Clark’s eyes.

“Which option has a higher guarantee of success, by your calculations?” Clark asked, finished up the slice of pie.

Bruce wanted to lie to him. Wanted to keep his hands clean. Wanted to leave him some hope in the world that even those who were powerless could still do something about their own circumstances.

( _“Been wondering ‘bout something, Ileana.”_  
  
_“What is it?”_

_“You’ve been here a while. Ever tried to leave?”_

_“No.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“I don’t have a passport, so anyone who finds me will figure that I’m an illegal immigrant, and they’d arrest me first without even asking for the reason for me being here.”_

_“Ain’t that a good thing? Being arrested means you don’t have to stay here anymore. And if you get deported, you get to go home.”_

_“But I’d have to spend time in a jail cell. You know what kind of things someone like me would have to go through if they are in a jail? At least here, I get better food and a nicer roof.”_

_“You don’t know what.”_

_“Fuck you if you think you know better. If you don’t know—”_ )

“Breaking into Sionis’s house,” Bruce sighed. He leaned back on his hands. Overhead, the Metropolis sky was bright and blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds that streaked into grey in the direction of Gotham. “That’s the best option.”

Clark drained his mug of juice. He bit his lip for a moment, and said, “Okay.”

Bruce blinked. “What?”

“Okay,” Clark repeated, placing the mug back down with a quiet _thump_. “We break into Sionis’s house. We get the records.” His eyes met Bruce’s, steady and bright. “Then we raid that brothel we broke into that one time, get the people out, and burn the place to the ground.”

“That’s,” Bruce started. He straightened. “That’s breaking and entering twice over, and then arson. Not to mention the potential charge of kidnapping.”

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. He looked away from Bruce back into the basket, rummaging around until he found another sandwich and biting into it. “Your son told me something important. I don’t think he meant the message to be taken that way exactly, but that’s still what I got from it.”

“What,” Bruce said slowly, “did Dick tell you?”

Clark gave him a crooked smile, exposing one canine. “That getting your hands dirty is sometimes necessary to stop worse things from happening.” He popped the sandwich into his mouth, chewing on it as he spread out his hands. “I think that I’ve been obsessed with keeping these clean for too long.” 

When they retrieved the records of visits, it was the Bat who had broken into the brothel, disabled the safe, and took the documents out and placed it at the window. Clark’s role was to read the papers through the walls, memorise them as quickly as he could, and then the Bat had returned everything to their previous positions. Everything illegal was done by the Bat; the heaviest charge Clark might receive was being an accessory to a crime, and that would be hard to pin down since he was only in the area for a couple of minutes at best. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” Bruce asked softly. “About the reception of Superman changing because you’re no longer following every rule of the law to the letter and spirit?”

“Yeah,” Clark shrugged. “But you sell Mannheim and Sionis their electronic security measures.” Bruce’s fingers twitched. “You allow absolute bastards to stay on your Foundation’s board.” His hands clenched into fists. “You tried to kill me.” He couldn’t stop the flinch.

Then Clark leaned forward. He took Bruce’s clenched fists, and his thumbs were smooth and hot as he ran them over the white knuckles. Bruce exerted more effort than should be necessary to keep his breathing steady. But his heartbeat was skyrocketing, and there was nothing he could do right now to stop that.

“I still think you’re a good man,” Clark told him. “One working with the confines that he has been given. One working with the intention of bettering the lives of others.” He lifted his head and gave Bruce a one-shouldered shrug. “If… If that’s not what people realise about Superman once I take this route, then I’ll just deal with it.”

“Deal with it,” Bruce repeated. His voice was far too raspy, but he didn’t trust himself enough to try to clear his throat.

“Mm,” Clark nodded. “The same way you deal with being thought a terror and an urban legend by the city you’ve been trying to save.” He paused. His thumb ran over Bruce’s knuckles again. “The way you make use of that reputation.”

The last thing he had ever wanted was for Clark to learn from him. But it was difficult, incredibly so, to formulate a protest when Clark was _touching_ him like that.

He hissed out a breath through a tremulous throat. Forced his eyes to stay open when they tried to close.

“Clark,” he tried, and his voice died immediately because Clark was now running those thumbs up the insides of his wrist. Another breath. He made himself grit out, “What are you _doing_?”

“Open your hands,” Clark said.

Bruce blinked. His fingers were uncurling before he could tell them to stop, and he stared at them dumbly as Clark folded them forward and pressed the tips against his own wrist. Against his own pulse.

That was thundering. Bruce stopped breathing.

“No,” he said. When Clark jerked up his head to stare at him, Bruce shook his head. “Not about the touching. But about what you said. No. Don’t learn from me. Not this part.”

Slowly, he pulled his hands away. Settled them down in his lap. Clark let him.

“The Bat’s role is to cause fear,” he said, keeping his voice steady with effort. “And my circle of influence is limited to Gotham. It’s not the same for you.”

Every inch of him ached to touch Clark again. Not the point. Not important. Bruce needed to _concentrate_. “You,” he started again. “You’re an inspiration, Clark.” _Even to me, especially to me,_ but those words were too heavy to voice, even now with Clark’s warmth lingering on his skin. “People look at you and they feel hope. They look at you and they think, you have so much power, you have gone through so much, and yet you do not hate them. You do not wish to rule over them, and only to help.”

“Isn’t this helping?” Clark asked. “Didn’t you tell me that I should put the fear of God into Sionis?”

“I did,” Bruce nodded. “I was wrong.” He looked down at his own hands. It shouldn’t be so easy, saying those words. But Clark, he realised, was starting to become the exception to his every rule. “To cause fear… that’s not for you. That’s not…” He hesitated.

Slowly, he reached out a hand. Clark didn’t stop him, so Bruce cautiously splayed his fingers out on Clark’s chest. Over the paisley tie, over where the El crest rested when Clark was in uniform. Over Clark’s heart.

“It would break you to try to act like me,” Bruce said softly. It had nearly broken him to be the way he was, and it had been Clark who had – unintentionally – drawn him back from the brink. If _Clark_ fell, who could save him? “Don’t.”

“Then what am I supposed to _do_?” Clark asked, and, Christ, the near-plaintive note in his voice was enough to wrench Bruce’s heart out of his chest in a very different way than he had once dreamt of Clark doing.

He took a deep breath, pushing the memories away. “Let me work in the dark,” he said. “I’ll be the thief, the fearmonger. But you… you shine the light. Write the exposés.” When Clark started shaking his head, Bruce curled his fingers in, digging his nails into invulnerable skin. “Don’t put the fear of God in them. Inspire them to be better. _Take a stand_.”

“You’re talking about using my influence,” Clark breathed out.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “They see you as a God, and they’re not going to stop. If you’re going to learn from me, Clark, then learn this part: _use it_.”  
_  
_ “Oh,” Clark breathed out. His hand came to wrap around Bruce’s wrist. Just holding it there, without trying to pull Bruce away. Their eyes met. Clark’s gaze flicked downwards, towards Bruce’s lips.

Bruce breathed in, gathered every single ounce of his will, and leaned back. Pulled his hand away from Clark’s grip, Clark’s chest.

“You…” Clark shook his head. “You want me. I know that. I can _hear_ you.”

“Not like this,” Bruce said. His mouth was very dry. “Not right now.” There was still too much left for both of them figure out. Clark was still stumbling, trying to find his way. And Bruce… He didn’t know what he needed to do to make it a right time, a right way. But he knew that this felt wrong.

“Besides,” he cleared his throat. “You still have Lois.”

“She broke up with me,” Clark said. When Bruce blinked at him, he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “She can’t be my damsel in distress anymore, I guess.”

 _That’s_ it _._ Trust Lois Lane, famed writer and investigator, to figure out the issue and put it so succinctly. Bruce briefly considered sending her flowers, and then realised that it would be strange and a little creepy.

“And I can’t be your teacher,” Bruce said. “That’s even worse than me buying the farm, I think.” 

No debts. Nothing owed between them. Only what they would and could freely give to each other. 

Maybe that was too idealistic, but that was what Clark had given to him without even meaning to. 

After a moment, Clark laughed. He raised a hand, and brushed his knuckles lightly over the air above Bruce’s jaw, right at the spot where he had tapped the Morse code just a few days ago. “Who?” 

The answer this time took no thought. “We have a King of Atlantis and a Princess of Themyscira as teammates, Clark,” he said, lips quirking up at the sheer ridiculousness of his own life ever since he met this man. “Ask them.” He paused, remembering the conversation he had with Diana as they headed out to fight Steppenwolf. “Diana might have more experience, but I suspect Arthur would be more willing to share.” 

Even if Arthur hadn’t officially taken the throne yet, his efforts to do so would likely be even more helpful to Clark. 

“Arthur,” Clark repeated. He smiled as well, the curl of it seemingly as helpless as Bruce’s. “Is this part of your ploy to get me to speak with the whole team?”

Bruce shrugged. “To paraphrase a great academic, ‘You need friends.’” He paused, considering, remembering. “Allen, B, _First Meeting_ , Wayne Publishing, Central City: 2017.”

He could see the moment when his words sank into Clark’s mind. “Did you just,” Clark started. “Did you just _cite_ Barry? And does Wayne Publishing even exist?” 

“Yes,” Bruce nodded solemnly. “And it can of I want it to.” 

Too late, he realised that might be going too far. But Clark was laughing, shoulders shaking hard enough to unbalance him until he fell on his back in the grass. 

“That,” he gasped out, “was so bad.” 

“It made you laugh,” Bruce pointed out, trying to not sound too proud of himself about it. 

“Just proves that my sense of humour is just as bad, I guess,” Clark said. He looked at Bruce for a long moment before he straightened again, sitting up. Bruce pushed the picnic basket a bit closer to him. 

Clark glanced at it before he sighed, looking up at Bruce even as he rummaged for more food. “So where does fussing over me fall under?” 

Bruce thought over it for a moment. “Something I do because I want to,” he said carefully, “and I can.” If Clark asked him now why he bought the bank, why he made all the effort to ensure that Clark Kent could return back to life and his job, this would also be the answer. 

For long moments, Clark just stared at him. Then he pulled a muffin out of the basket, peeling the paper of without averting his glance. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I can deal with that.” He took a bite. 

But they weren’t just talking about food anymore. Bruce picked up his discarded sandwich, dusted it off, and ate it. He ignored Clark’s raised eyebrow. His parents _and_ Alfred had raised him to not waste food, and sometimes he even listened. 

They ate in silence until Clark said, suddenly, “You need a proper picnic blanket.” When Bruce blinked, Clark grinned at him around his mouthful of muffin. “I’ll ask Mom if she has an extra.” 

Bruce could afford a picnic blanket easily without having to rely on someone else’s hand-me-downs. But he knew that wasn’t the point. The offer wasn’t the point either, not exactly. It was... It was Clark, offering something of his home freely to Bruce. 

A gesture. A symbolic action. A sign. 

Clark was learning Bruce’s language. Not just how to listen, but to speak as well. 

“Yeah,” Bruce said, voice soft so he wouldn’t choke on his own words, on the gravity of the gift he had been so freely given. “That’d be great.”

( _“Even if you don’t go to the police, there are still organisations out there with people who would be willing to help.”_

_“They’d chase me down if I try to escape. You don’t see them, but there are guards. They carry silencers. And who would care if someone like me end up falling down dead in front of them?”_

_“You’re scared.”_

_“Of course I’m fucking scared! You don’t know— There’s no point in escape. I can get used to this. I’ve gotten used to this already.”_

_“If you have, you wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me. You wouldn’t have let me in today”_

_“Fuck you if you think you know anything. You don’t know how hard it already is to just wake up every morning and keep breathing. You don’t know how much it takes for me to sit here talking to you—”_

_“I’ll pay you back. You know that.”_

_“Not true. I don’t know anything.”_

_“You know that you can try to leave. That you must try, for your own sake.”_

_“Don’t you dare tell me what I should do! Don’t you dare— you don’t know— don’t you_ fucking _dare—”_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The citation style is ACS, by the American Chemistry Society. Because Bruce would be nerdy enough to know the citation style that Barry, as a forensic scientist, would be most familiar with and use it as a joke. Also, in the comics, Clark has a photographic memory due to how Kryptonian brains work under the yellow sun.
> 
> I was actually going to have another properly-written scene between Bruce and Ileana, but then I realised it would be repetitive, there’s something I want to do about the brackets that I keep using in his POV anyway, and I might as well make that scene work to advance more plot threads since it’s pretty long. 
> 
> They’re slowly getting better at this ‘finding an equilibrium’ thing. But, well, for those people who are worried about things going too fast? It’s still pretty much a ‘two steps forward, one step back’ kind of thing.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for everyone who has commented on the previous chapter; the response was really, really overwhelming, and I really do love all of you a lot. ;_; My motivation has come back and, if you look at the total number of chapters up there, I have outlined this fic until the end. It _will_ be finished, and that's all thanks to you guys.  <3!


	8. plastering (the walls)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Clark work on the underground hangar. Wonder Woman meets the Bat in Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Pretty graphic description of organised criminals trafficking humans in the second scene, involving canon-typical violence, horrific treatment of actual people, and implications of mass deaths of unnamed trafficked people. Also, dealing with Clark’s post-death traumas, with a depiction of a panic attack.

It was a week after that picnic lunch with Bruce – Clark refused to call it a _business_ lunch, no matter how much shop they had talked during it – that he finally managed to meet up with Arthur. He hadn’t been avoiding the other man, he hadn’t been trying to catch him, either. All Clark had done was to keep heading towards the site of their future headquarters and work on it.

Arthur arrived in the late afternoon, the sun close enough to setting that the clouds were streaked with orange. Unlike what Clark had imagined – which was something like Arthur rising from some underground stream like a vengeful god from millennia ago, which was, he admitted now, a rather improbable image – he came on a motorcycle. A rather beat-up specimen, but with the wheels still new enough that the rubber shone, and the metal of the rims caught the light.

“Hey,” Arthur said. He pulled off his helmet, and there was a wry grin at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Sorry,” Clark blurted out. “It was hard to help out when I had my head up my own ass.” He tried for a small smile.

But Arthur was already laughing. He slung his helmet over the handlebar of the bike by its strap before swinging off it entirely, heading over to Clark and slapping him hard enough on the back that even his invulnerable skin felt the impact. Clark barely managed to not drop the bundle of wires in his hands.

“You came back from the dead,” Arthur pointed out. “Would’ve been even weirder if you’ve been completely alright after that kind of shit happening to you.”

It was still odd for Clark to hear what happened to him so casually, even if it was from someone else’s mouth. He rubbed his knuckles over his nose for a moment before he focused on putting the wires where they were meant to go. “Technically, I wasn’t dead,” he said, carefully not looking at Arthur. “Just… in some kind of stasis that looks close enough to death that it fooled everyone, I guess.”

“From my experience, a shredded heart tends to mean the bucket’s been fully kicked,” Arthur remarked, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders hunched. “But, hey, you’re the expert here. If you say you weren’t dead, then you weren’t.” When he noticed Clark’s eyes on him, he turned his gaze away to scan his surroundings.

“Man, this place looks fucking ugly,” he said.

Looking up, Clark had to admit that he wasn’t wrong about it. Most of the skeleton of the main building had been put in, which meant that it was now a strange, squarish shape made out of steel beams with rubber-coated copper wires twining through all of it. At some point, cement would be poured in between the beams to raise walls, and it would look more than an actual building instead of an overly-elaborate plasticine creation.

“It’ll be better soon,” he said. Glancing at Arthur, he cocked his head. “I thought you were not coming over until the wires are all done?”

“Wires are done for that thing,” Arthur said, jerking his head towards the giant, tarp-covered hole that was just a distance from the main building. “I’m here to put cement on the walls so the whole thing won’t collapse the moment it rains or something.” 

“Want me to help with that?”

“Nah,” Arthur shrugged. “You finish up the wires. I’m not even going to touch those.” He paused, body half-turned away from Clark, and tipped his head so he could look at him over his shoulder. “After we’re done, you got some time to talk?”

The articles he had been assigned to – the ones that had nothing to do with what Perry had termed “Kent’s Big Story” – had all been submitted, which was the reason why he could leave work early today. There was nothing he could do right now about Ramona’s case – Bruce was still hunting down leads electronically for the trafficking rings that existed in Eastern and Central Europe – and though it was the season for wildfires, Clark couldn’t hear any emergencies that would require his attention right now.

Besides, hadn’t he wanted to talk to Arthur? Now he didn’t even need to ask.

“Sure,” he shrugged. 

As Arthur pulled the tarp off the hole in the ground, Clark settled back to the wiring. He connected the last of the wires to the outlet boxes, and then triple-checked that nothing was crossing each other, and that everything was laid out according to Bruce’s plan. Nothing seemed to be out of place, but he kicked off the ground and floated upwards anyway, looking at the skeletal structure through an aerial view. 

If Clark was being honest, he had no idea how Bruce was going to manage pouring the cement in without calling in a construction company. But that, he knew, was part of Bruce’s job, something that he had volunteered by himself to do, and Clark should trust him to do it like Bruce had trusted him to do the bulk of the wiring.

Turning away from the main building, he dove down the hole. Then he stopped in mid-air, floating as he watched Arthur work. 

Opened sacks piled together behind him. Some grey powder was spilled on the ground beneath his feet, but most of it had been poured into giant containers filled with water that was now spinning slowly on its own. Arthur’s eyes were closed, his brows furrowed in concentration. As Clark watched, cement spilled over the containers’ rims, spreading out over the floor slowly, covering the sand and rock and dirt by a few even inches before hitting the walls and starting to crawl upwards, higher and higher, as if the grey liquid was trying to reach the sky.

Clark darted down. He picked up the open sacks and the empty containers, clearing them away as Arthur’s breathing grew louder. Lurching forward, Arthur slammed both of his hands on the wall, leaning hard against it. Cement skittered away from his fingers, showing grey-slicked grains of soil, before sinking back in again. A circle started to form at Arthur’s feet, keeping them clean as the ground was slowly covered by what would eventually become the floor.

“Little help here,” Arthur gritted out, less of a request than a demand.

Balling up the trash in his hands and using his strength to compact it all into a tiny ball, Clark threw it upwards, hearing it hit the grass some distance away from the hole. Then he flew closer to Arthur, closing his hands around the other man’s armpits. As Arthur pushed himself away from the wall, Clark lifted him up. Cement rushed in to fill in that circle just as the rest of it reached the top of the hole.

Arthur breathed out. Sweat beaded his forehead. Clark shifted his grip, wrapping his arm around a thick, muscled waist. 

“He said that building this place might be good training,” Arthur said eventually, his voice ragged. His hands found the tips of Clark’s shoulders, pressing hard on them for balance as he leaned even more of his weight on Clark. “There might be a point there, but he’s still full of shit.”

There was only one person who could be saying something right and still be full of shit at the same time. Clark’s lips twitched. “You wanna head up there?” he asked. “Sit down?”

“Nah,” Arthur said. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, turning slightly to look at Clark. “Gotta stay here to hold the water in place.” Clark must’ve stared or blinked or something, because Arthur laughed. “Five inches exactly everywhere,” he said. “That’s not gonna happen unless I hold it until the water dries.”

“Oh,” Clark said. He cocked his head, looking at the wet cement for a long moment. Then he moved his other arm so that he was holding onto Arthur tightly, his own chest against the other man’s back. “Hold on a bit, and tell me if I’m not doing this right.”

Before Arthur could ask, much less protest, Clark turned his heat vision on. He started with the ground first, making sure that the heat was strong enough to evaporate the water quickly but not enough to steam – he might not know a lot about construction, but he knew that air bubbles in concrete were a terrible thing. Once he was rather sure that the floor was dry, he set Arthur down, and moved on to the walls.

His eyes had started to hurt by the time he reached the halfway point. But he remembered the sheen of sweat on Arthur’s face, the creases on the sides of his eyes from exhaustion of resisting gravity’s hold on the water, and he pressed on. In any case, it was easier the higher he reached, because the sun might be setting but its rays were still strong enough to reach his skin.

When all of the concrete had dried into a solid, Clark closed his eyes. He kept them closed even as he dropped down again, listening for Arthur’s breathing for somewhere to land, panting.

Yeah. Yeah, Bruce might have a bit of a point about training.

“Man,” Arthur said, his voice now sounding louder with solid concrete to bounce off of. “Am I glad that you got your head outta your ass in time, or am I _glad_.”

Despite how breathless he felt, Clark still found himself laughing. He opened his eyes, turning to look at Arthur. The other man had flopped down on the concrete, splayed all over the rough surface – needed to be smoothed over, Clark noted – on his stomach with his arms spread out. His head was pillowed on his folded arms, and he was grinning.

“Faster with two people,” Clark said.

“You’re telling me,” Arthur said. “I thought I’d have to wait here for hours, literally watching cement dry while feeling my headache grow.”

Leaning back, Clark let himself drop down to the floor, staring up at the sky. “So,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Couple of things,” Arthur said. “First off, I wanna ask you properly for your name.” He shrugged. “I mean, I heard the bastard say it, and then I heard your girl say it too, but that ain’t the same as actually asking.”

“She’s not my girl,” Clark protested. When Arthur raised an eyebrow, he corrected. “Used to be, but not anymore. But that’s not the point. Uh…” He sat up, and reached out a hand. “Clark Kent. I work for the _Daily Planet_.”

“Arthur Curry,” Arthur intoned, shaking his hand without getting up from his prone position. There was a grin tugging on the edge of his mouth. “Eternally unemployed, because fuck this job bullshit, man. I don’t need it. Never did.”

“Isn’t ‘King of Atlantis’ a job?”

“Not officially that yet,” Arthur said, waving a hand. “And don’t let the Atlanteans hear you refer to the throne as a _job_. It’s a ‘surface-dweller term’ and it’s ‘disrespectful.’” Arthur could verbalise _air quotes_ , Clark noted, helplessly amused. “Or however the fuck they like to say it.”

“Right,” Clark nodded. “No job interviews in Atlantis, then.”

“You can’t even talk there without using special Atlantean power,” Arthur informed him. “So, no, it’s not a good idea.” He dropped his arm back down on the floor, and his brows furrowed for a moment. 

“The second thing,” he said, voice quieter now. “Once, there was this guy. He fell out of an exploding oil tanker, fell straight into the water. I could always tell when something’s in the ocean that doesn’t belong there – pollution’s fucking annoying – and this guy didn’t belong. Because the water is freezing cold, and he’s still alive five minutes later.”

Clark’s eyes widened. “The whales.”

“Ah,” Arthur said, eyes narrowing on Clark. “That _was_ you, then.”

“It was,” Clark said. “You… you sent the whales?”

“I didn’t _send_ them,” Arthur said, frowning. “But I was curious, and those whales – I know them. They usually swim around one of my favourite places, all the way up north near Iceland.” He rubbed at his jaw, thumb scraping over his beard. “They caught my curiosity, and they went to look for the thing in the water that was bothering me so much.”

Clark licked his lips. Something else he really, really hadn’t expected. “Thanks,” he managed, rubbing at his nose with his knuckles. “I was kind of lost in the water there for a bit, and those two woke me up.” He cleared his throat. “Got me out.”

“They mentioned,” Arthur shrugged. “And, yeah, I’ll pass on the thanks the next time I see them.”

Looking at him for a long moment, Clark slowly cocked his head to the side. “Do I get to tell Bruce that you _can_ actually talk to fish?” he asked.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” Arthur snarled out, eyes bright with mirth even as he jabbed a finger in Clark’s direction. “The bastard just refuses to let go of the idea, and he’s not getting a hint that he might be right. Not ever.”  
_  
_ “Okay, okay, I won’t tell.” Clark raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender. He searched for another topic. “Do you talk to Bruce often?”

“As often as I do the others,” Arthur said, settling back down again. “Whenever I catch him ‘round these parts.” He barked a laugh. “Just ‘cause you saved the world with a bunch of people doesn’t make all of you friends, no matter what’s been said ‘bout not being alone anymore.”

“Are you?”

“Huh?”

“Alone,” Clark clarified. “Are you still alone?” 

“That’s what I’m used to,” Arthur said. He rolled over until he was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. “But it’s kind of hard to be when I have a list of places in my head that I can go to when I need people.”

 _Places to go to_ , Clark thought. He laid back down beside Arthur, folding his arms behind his head. That was a good way to put it, he thought. Not like how Lois had; not about someone standing beside him. But someone – several of them – to go to if he ever felt like he needed or wanted them.

“I need to ask you something, too,” Clark said.

“Mm?”

“What’s it like?” Clark asked, turning his head so he could face Arthur properly. “Trying to be a King. Using your authority, and influence, to change people’s minds and getting them to follow your lead.”

Arthur’s lips twitched, and he barked a laugh. “Well,” he said, glancing at Clark out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

Somehow, Clark wasn’t surprised. He blew out a breath, shoulders sagging against the concrete. “Worth a try,” he said wryly.

“Thing is,” Arthur continued, seeming to not have heard. “They throw this thing about King of Atlantis to me, telling me what I’m born for it. They tell me that’s what my blood’s meant for. But…” He reached out a hand, flexing his fingers and peering at the skies through them. “All of my life, all I knew was that my blood’s that of a lighthouse keeper, and that’s one of the furthest you can get from ‘king.’”

Clark had the feeling that Arthur wasn’t exactly talking to him anymore, but rather speaking just to get the words out. “Must be a head trip,” he said softly. “Going from someone struggling to make ends meet to becoming a king.”

“That’s not it,” Arthur said. He tilted his head over, looking at Clark. “My dad and me, we never really struggled.” He rolled his shoulders into a slight shrug. “Hard to do that when you stop having to buy food because you can literally jump into the ocean to grab fish. When you can ask the fish to come to you.”

“Hah,” Clark blinked.

“Like I said, I don’t actually need a job,” Arthur told him. His dark gaze was very heavy on Clark for a long moment. “You know what I mean, right? You don’t exactly need to eat. You don’t really need a permanent place to live. And like,” he waved a hand around them, “if I want a house, I can literally build it myself. ‘Specially if I find the materials from nature and such.” 

He paused, and then shrugged a little. “When you’ve got powers… things like that don’t affect you as much.”

Clark chewed on his lip for a long moment, thinking. Arthur was right, he thought. Clark could still afford his rent, could still afford to visit Ramona if he needed and wanted to, because he technically didn’t need to eat. Because eating wasn’t exactly a need, but a choice. A choice that most people strapped for cash didn’t have.

But that didn’t explain why he couldn’t stop thinking about the way the barn had fallen in. It didn’t explain why, even now, bile still threatened at the back of his throat when he thought about Bruce buying the farm. About Bruce resurrecting Clark Kent.

Running a hand over his face, he let out a breath. He would think about this later, he told himself, and turned back to Arthur.

“What was it, then?” he asked. “That bothers you.”

“You don’t see a lot of people when you live in a lighthouse, and you can take off whenever you like ‘cause finding the way back is easy,” Arthur said. “You have to meet people and deal with their problems every single fucking day as a King, and no one would let you go.” He flashed a smile in Clark’s direction. “That’s what bothers me.”

“I don’t know if this would count, but…” Clark paused, thinking over his words. “When the whales found me, I was travelling around the world. Answering to no one, doing whatever I wanted to do.” He rolled back on his stomach again, holding himself up with his elbows and scratching lightly on the rough patches on the concrete. “Then I became Superman, and everyone now watches what I do… And I still don’t know how to deal with that.” 

Arthur snorted. “If you ever figure that out, you should tell me,” he said. “Everyone’s telling me to be a leader, but like hell do I know how to be one when I barely talk to one person every day.”

Clark tapped his lip, counting. “I talk to… three people, maybe four, on a regular basis?” Which reminded him: he needed to visit Mom soon. He hadn’t exactly been avoiding her; he just didn’t want to have her deal with him being a complete mess. “So one person per day is still probably better than me.”

“Hah,” Arthur said. He rolled over so he could look at Clark properly, arching an eyebrow. “So, the bastard _did_ put you up to this.”

Bastard? “You mean Bruce?”

“There’s only one bastard who deserves to be called that instead of his name,” Arthur pointed out.

 _He’s not that bad_ , Clark wanted to protest, but he knew that it would be useless. Not because Arthur was set on his opinions – which he obviously was – but there was a slight upward crease at the corners of his eyes that showed that he didn’t really think that badly of Bruce.

Besides, Clark had never signed up to be Bruce’s defence squad, and he wasn’t going to start now. He shrugged. “He did,” he said. “He mentioned that you might have a clue about how to make use of the influence you have.”

“Like hell I do,” Arthur said, snorting again. “I wouldn’t even go so far as to say that I even _have_ influence. It’s like pulling teeth to get people to listen to me, down there in the water.” He paused, shaking his head. “The bastard should know that.”

That was true, Clark realised. He might have no idea about how Arthur and Bruce had met, but Bruce wasn’t the kind of person to not immediately know what someone is capable of in terms of wielding power and influence. He was too smart and spent too much time dealing with such threads to not know.

“Maybe I should’ve talked to Diana instead,” Clark muttered to himself.

“Nah,” Arthur said. When Clark looked at him, he huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re not just looking for a way to lead a team, Clark,” he pointed out. “You’re looking for a way that you can try to lead a _world_ , to try to get a huge number of people to follow you just because of who you are, what you are.” He paused. “And no one’s heard of any of us before Steppenwolf. None of us except for you.”

Which meant that no one could tell him anything, because the arena that Clark wanted to step into was alien to all of them. Then why on Earth did Bruce tell him to talk to them about this? There was _no way_ he couldn’t have known that it wouldn’t help—

_Is this part of your ploy to get me to speak with the whole team?_

_To paraphrase a great academic, ‘You need friends.’_

Barry’s words. Barry, the first person on the team he had talked to aside from Bruce. Clark slapped a hand over his face, and rolled on his back again. He stared at the sky through the gaps between his fingers.

“Bastard,” he breathed out. “He’s a _bastard_.”

 _Something I do because I want, and I can_.

Because he couldn’t help Clark, not about this. Because he knew that no one would be able to, but Clark wouldn’t believe it unless he realised it himself. Because Bruce couldn’t – _refused to_ – carve out Clark’s path for him, and only Clark could do it himself. Because Bruce might buy the farm for him, might help resurrect Clark Kent again, but he wasn’t Lois. He wouldn’t name Clark; wouldn’t help him shape how Superman should be.

He had to do this on his own. Figure out how to save the world entirely by himself. Like how he had wanted. Like how a part of him still wanted.

“So, the fuck did he do this time?” Arthur asked. He sounded mildly curious.

“It’ll take forever to explain,” Clark said. He let his hand drop to the floor, and turned to look at Arthur again. “Hey, if I come up with ideas about what I’m doing… Can I run them by you?”

Arthur blinked, and then cocked his head to the side. “Sure. Not gonna promise that I’ll be useful, or that you can even find me sometimes, but… sure.”

“I can find you,” Clark said. He quirked a smile and, when Arthur’s gaze settled on him, tapped a hand on his ear. “Underwater might be a bit of an issue, but I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s fucking creepy,” Arthur said, but he was grinning out of the corner of his mouth. “Alright, sure. Come look for me. Would be a change to have people coming to me instead of the other way around.”

Clark sat up, resting his hands on his thighs before he stood. “A good change?” he asked, holding out a hand.

Arthur took it, and pulled himself to his feet. He was, Clark noted, pretty heavy. “You can say that, yeah,” he said, still grinning. “So, talk over, back to work?”

“A whole building to pour cement into,” Clark said, jerking his thumb in that direction. _And no one else on the team who can do it_ , he didn’t add, because Arthur likely already knew. “You ready for it?” 

“More than you are, city kid,” Arthur said. He held out an arm, and Clark laughed as he swung it over his shoulders and kicked off the ground.

“You know,” he said idly, “I was actually raised on a farm?”

“Bullshit,” Arthur said, throwing Clark an incredulous look the moment they reached solid ground.

“Kansas born and bred,” Clark grinned. After a moment, he cocked his head. “I thought you would know, actually. Wasn’t I, you know, at the farm?”

“Like hell I’d want anything to do with graverobbing,” Arthur said. “Gives me the creeps just thinking about it.” He shuddered so exaggeratedly that Clark couldn’t help but laugh.

“Alright, alright,” he said. He looked at the skeletal main building for a moment before he tapped his lip. “Where do you guys keep the cement powder?” 

“C’mon,” Arthur said, heading off to the north and beckoning Clark with a hand. “You’re fucking hopeless.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clark rolled his eyes. “Just show me where it is already and stop whining.”

When Arthur laughed, Clark could feel his grin widening. A part of him was still incredulous, telling him that it was ridiculous for him to be at ease with Arthur this soon. But…

He remembered laughing at Victor, at that moment after the boxes had exploded. He remembered standing there on top of that cliff, looking down at the village and knowing that he and his team had saved all of them. He had stood there, surrounded by them, and he… He wanted to get that feeling back.

If only to put a name to it. If only to understand it. 

***

A city famed for its nightlife like Paris should not be quiet on a weekend. But here, within the sight of the glimmering Eiffel Tower, the pavement was dark and the rows of squat houses seemed entirely abandoned. The few streetlights only illuminated the homeless as they lolled against the walls, drunk and shivering in the cold night. Rue Saint-Denis might be near the centre of the city, a walking distance from the Notre-Dame Cathedral on the other side of the river, but there was no glitter or glamour here.

Seated on one of the rooftops, the Bat waited with his cape pooled around his feet.

Ileana’s email address had given him five different locations, tracing a route from Kythera to Athens to Prizren and Sarajevo before the trail went dead in Zagreb in Croatia. The Bat had crafted an algorithm to pick up images of trucks and vans that went through that route, and it was the last three cities that had set the alarms ringing. When the Bat had focused on trailing those trucks, he had found a few that headed towards Italy – Naples, Milan, Florence – via a ferry, fewer headed to Vienna in Austria and Zurich in Switzerland. The majority, however, headed for France: to Monaco and, most significantly, to Paris. 

It was still a gamble, but twenty years of working against people of this particular industry told the Bat that his hunch was right. Some scans of the Dark Web confirmed his suspicions. Hence, he had taken the jet this morning and left Gotham, landing in Paris a couple of hours ago and heading straight for the district that had been – obliquely and in code – mentioned to be buyers.

His earpiece crackled. “Are you sure that you will not call Ms Prince for backup, sir?” Alfred asked.

“I’m not going to call her,” the Bat said, soft enough that the voice modulator couldn’t pick it up but the mic would. “Don’t do it on my behalf either.”

“Aye, aye,” Alfred said. The Bat could practically see him rolling his eyes. “I would’ve thought that the lessons about working with others would’ve stuck.”

Rumbles of an engine. The Bat clicked his jaw shut on his reply – it wasn’t important anyway, just a rehash of an old argument – as he crept forward to the edge of the rooftop. The approaching truck was a nondescript grey, with a name of a moving company painted at the side – a front, most likely, but he shelved the name into a corner of his mind nonetheless. The most significant part of it were its headlights: they were switched on, but only bright enough to illuminate five or so feet ahead. Modified. The Bat notched up his estimation of the group’s danger levels.

As the truck turned, the Bat tapped at the control panel of his wrist. The cowl’s lenses slid into place, and the x-ray function turned on. Bodies inside the truck – he _was_ right – but there was something that didn’t fit. Though the bodies were crammed together, the skeletons he could see were pretty large, at least five feet ten or even taller.

These were not women. The truck was definitely headed here, to the red-light district, but it was not carrying women, or even children. These were adult men. 

The Bat frowned. Could this be another ring that transported to Paris? Perhaps he should stay his hand and simply watch their operations instead of stopping them, in case the rings had contact with each other and he would lose his intended prey by moving too soon. 

_No_ , he decided. The cowl’s lenses slid back at his command as he stood up and started to run across the rooftops on his silent silicon soles as the truck made a turn that threatened to take it away from the Bat’s sightlines. He would stop this, right now, and if it meant that it would take him longer and more effort to find Ileana’s kidnappers afterwards, then so be it.

A couple more turns down the labyrinthian streets of Paris, and then the truck stopped. Its destination was, at first glance, one of the many run-down bars that dotted Rue Saint-Denis, with dirty windows and filthier walls now lit up by the truck’s headlights. As the Bat watched, a man jumped out of the truck’s passenger seat and went up to the door. The knock was very loud in the thick silence – unlike the other parts of the district, there were no homeless who tried to find a rest spot against the walls in the vicinity.

Despite how decrepit the bar looked, its door did not creak when it was opened. Another man stepped out. The Bat flattened himself on the rooftop’s surface, crawling on his stomach even as he turned up the microphones embedded near the cowl’s ears to pick up the conversation.

“Fifty-two of them, as we promised _,_ ” the man on the truck said. “The other half of the money, as _you_ promised.”

 _Russian_ , the Bat recognised and, immediately, _Shit_. This was bad. If the mafiya was involved in this, then this particular trafficking organisation was way bigger than he had first thought. Most rings worked pretty much independently, collaborating with others of their ilk for the sake of profit alone. But if they were controlled by a single group of the Russian mob, one with enough power, money, and connections to have a reach over all of Europe…

Later. Right now, he watched as the two men ducked inside the building, leaving only the truck’s driver with the kidnapped men. The Bat slid his fingers over his wrist, stiffening his cape into a glider even as he jumped off the rooftop. He landed on top of the truck’s body, his weight making the metal shudder and rattle loudly. As the truck driver shoved his door open to step outside, the Bat heard wood slamming against wood as the building’s windows opened.

Snipers. Of course. He rolled off the truck’s top, throwing an electrified batarang towards the driver. The man went down immediately, cursing in a form of Russian that the Bat recognised to be _Fenya_ , the language of criminals. The mafiya was definitely involved in this. Fuck’s sake. Though, it might make things easier if there was only a single organisation to hit—  
_  
_ He slid immediately under the truck as bullets littered the ground at his feet and buried itself in the truck’s metal side – oh, good, the thing was armoured. The shots sounded like pellets from a slingshot – the snipers were using silencers. The Bat gritted his teeth and spun around until he was on his stomach, crawling forward on his elbows until he could see the windows. He dug into his utility belt and pulled out one of his tools before he shoved a hand out and threw it upwards.

As the snipers yelled at the bright-bursting light that exploded from the device, the Bat scrambled out from underneath the truck. He raced forward to the building’s door, kicking it open before he threw in a few smoke bombs that were spiced with pepper spray. Pressing himself against the wall, he waited until the shouts had died down and smoke stopped emitting from the door. While he was waiting, he also made sure that the truck driver was well and truly out of commission by giving him another taser shock in the form of a batarang to his remaining uninjured hand. Then he headed inside— 

That sudden splash of moving colour at the corner of his vision. 

The Bat stifled a twitch of his lips, instead focusing on knocking out the men on the first floor. A few knocks on the head, a couple blood-chokes, and they were all down. He glanced at the stairs heading upwards before shaking his head, pulling out the cable ties in this belt to secure the men instead. The noises coming from upstairs told him that the situation was being handled. 

_Thump, thump, thump_. The Bat lifted his head and straightened just in time to see three men being tossed down the stairs. He shrugged to himself and tied them up as well, waiting until Diana appeared, resplendent in her armour and her hands gripping tight onto the collars of the final two snipers. She flung them in his direction, and he stepped out of the way as they landed, groaning, on the wooden floorboards. He tied them up, too, and didn’t flinch when Diana dropped the five guns that the men had been using, all of them bent hopelessly out of shape.

“I didn’t call for backup,” he said. 

Her boots clicked on the steps as she headed down, and she was grinning. Five men, all larger than her and armed, and she hadn’t even broken a sweat. “This is my favourite city,” she said. “I’m doing my civic duty of cleaning up the trash.”

Snorting, the Bat turned and headed for the door. “You’ve been talking to Cyborg,” he said as he casually kicked at the ribs of one of the men trying to get out of his ties, knocking the breath out of him. Then he nudged the toe of the boot against a bulging vein on the neck until the men’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and went unconscious. 

“He has been updating me on the uses of technology and slang,” Diana told him cheerfully. She clicked her tongue at the sight of the unconscious truck driver before she leaned down and plucked the two batarangs out of the man’s hands, tossing them in the Bat’s direction. He put them back into his belt. “What’s going on here?”

“Human trafficking,” the Bat answered, heading over to the back of the truck and knowing that Diana would follow him. “I had been looking for those who transport women and girls, but these are adult men. Fifty-two of them.” He glanced at her for a moment before he took a step back. Diana obligingly punched a hole through the door of the truck and ripped out the lock.

They pulled the doors open, and the Bat suddenly realised why there were no screams from the inside of the truck even when bullets were pummelling the sides.

The men were all pressed so tightly together that it would practically be impossible for them to stretch out the arms and legs they had wrapped around their chests. Most of them seemed unconscious; those with their eyes open had them glazed over, caught in either the haze of extreme hunger or – the Bat suspected – a drug-induced stupor. Ropes surrounded their wrists and ankles, and had obviously been left there long enough that the wounds were raw and infection was creeping in on the edges.

Diana made a noise like she was going to be sick.

“Do you have contacts with the police and ambulance services?” the Bat asked.

“I,” Diana started. She swallowed, and jerked her head away from the truck’s insides to look at him. She nodded. “Yes. A few.” 

The Bat remembered what he had told her once, that men were still good; he wondered if she could still believe in that with this sight in front of her. He hoped she could.

“Call them,” he said briskly. “Tell them that you need enough ambulances for fifty-two men, and police cars for,” he mentally counted the men inside the building, “eleven members of a human trafficking ring.” He walked over to the driver, digging into his pockets until he found a phone. 

Tapping on his wrist, he hacked into it remotely and removed the locking screen before handing it to Diana. She took it with nerveless hands.

“Do that,” the Bat said, voice softer now. “I’ll bring them,” he jerked his head towards the truck, “out. You can help me later.”

Slowly, she nodded. The Bat turned back to the men. He could, he knew, do this by himself. But Clark’s voice was ringing in his head suddenly: _You’re not telling me everything_. The Bat— _Bruce_ didn’t know how to tell, what to say. He looked down at his own hands, and was unsurprised to find that they were trembling, just a little.

He took a step back. Then another. Closed his eyes and turned away because he could hear, right at the edge of his still-enhanced hearing, the rasping breaths of the men, the tiny whimpers that some of them were making. He swallowed and stabbed a button on the control panel of his gauntlet. “A,” he rasped.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s calm voice was familiar and should be reassuring. But all Bruce could feel was a deep sense of relief that Alfred was back in Gotham, that Bruce had managed, somehow, to keep him away from the filth of such things throughout these twenty years.

“Will you call Superman to come down here?” Another breath. “Rue Saint-Denis, in Paris. He can figure out my exact location from my heartbeat.” He clenched his fist. “Tell him… tell him that I’m going to show him that ‘everything’ that I haven’t… that I refused to tell him the last time.”

Silence for a moment. Then Alfred said, “Will do,” and switched off the line. Bruce was unspeakably glad that Alfred knew him well enough to not try to pry about the reason why he sounded the way he did.

Diana had finished the call by the time he headed back to the truck. She didn’t look at him, instead simply reaching inside and trying to get the men out. The first one flinched at her touch, and she drew back, shoving her fist into her mouth, trembling.

“Let me do it,” Bruce told her, his own hand hovering over her shoulder for a moment before landing. “I’ll bring them out, and you try to relax their muscles, get them out of that position.” His offer might not mean much – they would still flinch – but at least she wouldn’t have to be harsh with them. At least she would have the comfort of being gentle. “Alright?”

Diana was a warrior, Bruce reminded himself. Warriors rarely saw sights of such horrors, for warriors were kept to narratives where honour and goodness actually meant something instead of twisted, empty words. 

When she stepped back, exhaling sharp through her teeth and straightening her shoulders, Bruce turned back. He wrapped one hand around a bicep, the other around an ankle, and stifled his own instinctive reaction when the man flinched and struggled against him. He dragged him out, moving backwards until he was a distance from the truck – dodging mindlessly flailing hands all the while – before he went in for another one.

Three of them were on the ground when Clark arrived, red-booted toe touching lightly on the pavement. He opened his mouth, and Bruce could see the moment when he took in the unconscious truck driver, the men inside the building, and the unconscious, twitching men on the ground. Clark’s eyes widened, but he clicked his jaw shut and stepped up next to Bruce. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly.

“Help Diana with making them lie on their sides once I get them out,” Bruce told him, keeping his tone gruff. “I can handle this part on my own.”

Clark looked at him for a moment before he nodded, and practically fled to Diana’s side. Out of the corner of his eyes, Bruce could see the two of them in whispered conference before Clark nodded and moved to another man. Bruce turned away and continued with his task, feeling vaguely glad that they were all unconscious because his head was ringing with echoes of the screams of those trafficked women in Gotham. That had been over a year ago, but his memory never relented on things like these. 

He wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight. But that, too, was a hazard of the job. One that he had been faintly hoping that Clark and Diana wouldn’t have to suffer through, but so much for that.

Police and ambulance sirens rang out when Bruce had most of them on the ground. Diana had been good at her word: there were so many that the vehicles blocked the whole street. Paramedics immediately rushed out, heading over to Clark and Diana and speaking in rapid French that Bruce really had no energy to try to translate to English even in his own head. He ducked back inside the truck and brought out the last three men instead, breathing through his mouth so he wouldn’t take in too much of the stench of piss and shit and terror that permeated the entire interior.

When he was done, Bruce looked around him. No one was looking at him, the police busy with the traffickers and the paramedics picking up their patients and carrying them carefully onto stretchers and then ambulance. Clark was helping the latter, using his strength to lift two stretchers at once, and Diana was telling the police what she knew. Bruce nodded to himself, just once, before he shot a grapple line to a nearby rooftop and disappeared into the shadows.

But he didn’t leave. He simply sat down with his back against the edge and waited. He breathed and tried to tell himself that his skin wasn’t crawling with the panicked protests of the men, that his head wasn’t ringing with terrified shrieks and pained moans and gasps. It didn’t exactly work, but at least he tried.

He didn’t bother keeping track of the time, but the air was starting to warm and the light was streaking over the smog-filled sky by the time the last of the vehicles left the area. Bruce tipped his head up as Diana appeared at the edge of the rooftop, her hand twined around her lasso.

“We need to follow them to the police station,” she said. She was speaking a little too quickly, and her hand was clenching and unclenching around the golden rope. “You need to tell them what you know, and the lasso will force those… those men to give us information we need.”

“Sit down,” Bruce said, closing his eyes.

“What?”

“Those men have been knocked out effectively that they’re not going to wake up for hours, and you need to give the police some autonomy so they don’t start depending on you and your lasso for everything,” Bruce told her. “Just… sit down for a bit.”

He could feel her eyes boring into his own before Diana sighed, dropping down hard enough to that that her metal boots clanked against the concrete surface of the rooftop. Her head thudded against the railing. They just sat there in silence for a couple of minutes before there was the tell-tale _whoosh_ of Clark’s arrival.

“You’re right,” Clark said. Bruce could practically hear him weigh his options before he folded his legs and sat down as well, close enough that Bruce could feel his heat against his side. “I’m not… I just… _Fuck_.”

“Mm,” Bruce nodded. Without opening his eyes, he tapped a few buttons on his gauntlets, switching on the tools that would scramble images and audio being taken of him. Then he slipped off the things and hooked his bare thumbs under his cowl, pulling it off, too. He switched off the voice modulator as well before pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

He would have stayed there for a while, but whatever sixth sense he was developing about Clark suddenly rang out. When he lowered his hands, he realised that Clark’s were hovering above his wrists, and he was facing him. Bruce blinked.

“Can I,” Clark started. He swallowed. “I need—”

Slowly, Bruce nodded. He watched, a little distantly, as Clark took his hands and brought them to his own face. He could feel the faintest hint of stubble against his skin as Clark rubbed his cheek against his wrist, practically nosing his pulse. He could also practically hear Diana’s eyebrow rise.

“Not enough,” Clark said. His voice was tight now. “Bruce, I’m sorry, but I need— I—” 

Bruce forced himself to keep steady as Clark lunged forward. Hands tangled themselves in Bruce’s cape, pulling him forward as Clark shoved his face into his neck and then slid upwards, his nose and cheek grazing Bruce’s jaw. He breathed in deep, and his lips were right at Bruce’s temple, every exhale hot against his sweat-slicked hair. And his heart… Clark’s heart was beating so hard and so fast that Bruce could feel it even through the armour, and he hoped that his own didn’t sound as loud as it did in his own ears.

“Should I leave?” Diana asked, sounding amused. At least _she_ had a distraction, Bruce thought, and tried to not frown. He opened his mouth.

But Clark said, “Small box,” and his voice was very small. 

_Jesus_. Bruce’s eyes widened. He swallowed. “The truck,” he said. Carefully, so carefully, he placed his hand on the nape of Clark’s neck, holding him where he was as Clark’s breath hitched into near-sobs against his jaw. “It reminded you of the…” He swallowed. “The coffin.”

“I’ve mostly gotten over it,” Clark said, voice muffled and shuddering against Bruce’s jaw. “But just… the sight of it. The _smell_.” He trembled, and held Bruce so tight that Bruce could feel his ribs protesting. “And I keep trying to listen, I couldn’t help but listen, but there weren’t… there hadn’t been…”

Bruce had been a coward: while he was moving the men out, he hadn’t checked their pulses. But Clark… Clark didn’t have the privilege of ignorance. He was always listening. He knew exactly how many had died.

Metal scraped against concrete. “Diana,” Bruce said, forestalling her before she could leave. He reached out a hand and blindly grasped at her until he could feel her fingers between his own. He tugged her forward and led her in a circle until she was behind Clark. She looked at the two of them for a moment. Bruce squeezed her fingers, nodding.

Folding her knees, Diana leaned in. Wrapped her arms around Clark and pressed her face into his other shoulder, the one Bruce’s arm wasn’t resting on, and enveloped him from behind. “Kal,” she whispered. “Kal. It’s alright. You’re alive. It’s alright.”

Clark made a noise, low in his throat, but he stopped shaking as badly. Bruce dug his nails into the nape of his neck and slid his other hand down Clark’s arm. He didn’t pull away when Clark grabbed at it and tangled their fingers together. He didn’t deny it when his brain reminded him helpfully that Clark had held Lois Lane exactly like this when he came back from the dead, either.

They stayed like that for long moments, the silence of the streets broken up only by the sound of their breaths. Clark’s slowly evened out, and he stopped rubbing his cheek against Bruce’s jaw with as much desperation, instead pressing his nose against his pulse point and just breathing. Then, slowly, he pulled away.

“God,” Clark said. “This is so embarrassing—”

He stopped because Diana had a finger against his lips. He blinked at her, and she smiled. “Every warrior has their wounds,” she told him softly. “To shed tears for them is as natural as the splitting of the skin under a blade.” Tilting her head up, she brushed her lips against his forehead. “Never be ashamed, Kal, for every tear is a testament of your courage, for nothing is braver than to be hurt and to get up and fight again.”

Clark stared at her. He was, Bruce noted, amused despite himself, very much unused to Diana’s particular brand of eloquence and philosophy. 

“What she said,” he said dryly. “If you force yourself to not be affected, then you’re in danger of becoming like me, and no one wants that.” 

“Like you,” Clark echoed. He turned to look at Bruce, and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Bruce said. He tried to lean back, but Clark still had very firm grips on his cape, so he gave up after a while and just shrugged. “Do you remember the third man I branded? The one that the newspapers finally picked up on?” Clark nodded.

“I’ve read about it,” Diana said.

“Human trafficker,” Bruce said, fixing his eyes on the concrete surface. He knew he was wrong to do what he did; to do that while knowing that the man would die as a direct result of his actions. But he also remembered just how angry he was; how the rage threatened to consume him utterly. “He had a group of women from Shenzhen— from China, and he locked them behind a cage waiting for…” he shrugged. “Classification and transfer, you could say.”

He let out a breath. “I’m not excusing myself for what I did, but—”

“We get it,” Clark interrupted him. His hand was on Bruce’s cheek, tilting his head up. It was, Bruce noted, getting to be a bad habit of his. Clark gave him a lopsided grin. “Well, _I_ get it, anyway.”

“I understand, too,” Diana said. She untangled herself from Clark, shifting until she was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and her hands folded together at her ankles. “But I wonder… What keeps you going?”

Bruce cocked his head to the side.

“When I first came to this world of men, it was during the first world war,” Diana said. She flashed a smile at Clark’s widened eyes, and shrugged slightly. “I fought during the war, and when I was fighting, I thought… I thought it was caused by Ares, the god of war. I thought that if I defeated him, if I killed him, then the war would end. But it didn’t.”

She had never told Bruce that. He nodded slowly.

“The truth was that the war was caused by humans themselves. People _wanted_ to hurt each other, and the part Ares played was small.” She paused, looking down at her knees. “Someone I loved once died during that war,” she continued, “and it was just… I thought it was just so terrible, a useless waste of life. What was it _for_? And I told myself that I would try to find the reason. I would try to understand, so that something like that wouldn’t ever happen again.”

“But it did,” Bruce said quietly. “The second world war happened.”

Diana nodded. “I lost all hope, then,” she said. “I had thought I had seen the worst of men’s cruelties during the first war, but the second…” She shuddered, shaking her head. “But I still tried to understand. Yet it just seemed that whatever I did, it didn’t…” She bit her lip. “It didn’t seem to do anything. There didn’t seem to be a point in trying.”

Closing his eyes, Bruce sighed. He tugged his hand away from Clark’s, running it over his face. “It wasn’t anything grand that kept me going,” he said. “I thought that… it was something I had to do. The world was caught within several cycles of violence and harm, and I had a place in it. I gave up on making any real change. All I could do is to move the situation to the next stage of the cycle before it all began again.”

( _Criminals are like weeds, Alfred: pull one up, another grows in its place._ )

“What changed your mind?” Clark asked. Bruce raised his eyebrow at him. Wasn’t it obvious? Hadn’t he made himself very clear?

Apparently not, because Clark continued to stare, a furrow slowly growing between his brows. The silence stretched out between them. A muscle in Bruce’s jaw twitched as Diana’s shoulders started to shake.

“Uh,” Clark said, turning back to Diana when he seemed to realise that he wasn’t going to get a verbal answer out of Bruce. “We have a plan,” he said. “To change things. To make things better.” He hesitated. “Maybe it won’t ensure that something like this,” he jerked his head in the direction of the rooftop’s edge, “won’t ever happen again, but… maybe we can make sure it happens less. Save some people, even if we can’t save them all.”

Eyes brightening, Diana leaned forward. “What is it?” she asked, accent thickening with her obvious interest. When Clark looked at him, Bruce nodded.

So, they told Diana about their plans. Bruce gave both her and Clark all that he knew about the situation, and Clark outlined his own roles – as a reporter, as Superman, and, much later, as Kal-El of Krypton – along with Bruce’s plans to help him from the background. Diana listened to them without saying a word, her eyes growing unfocused as she absorbed the information and turned it over in her mind.

“The others might want to chip in as well,” she said once they were finished, tapping her fingers on her chin. “I know that Victor definitely would want to.” Something must’ve shown on their faces, because she laughed. “Did you ever consider that?”

“Not really,” Clark shrugged. “It’s…” He ran a hand through his hair. “It started with me and my own selfish desire to save this one girl I met.” He had left out Ramona in his explanation; Bruce told himself to not wonder too much about the reasons behind that. “I didn’t think that… that anyone would want to help with something like that.”

“But we do,” Diana said. “Bruce and I do, and I’m sure that if I speak to him, Victor would wish to chip in as well.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Though I’m not sure about Barry and Arthur.”

“Not Barry,” Bruce said before he could stop himself. Barry had just started out; Barry had never been in battle before Steppenwolf. To throw him into something like this right now… “We can ask Arthur, though I think he will refuse. But not Barry.”

“He will feel left out,” Diana pointed out. When Bruce made to protest again, she held out a hand. “And it might be better if he has people around him to lead him into such things instead of being plunged into it on his own.”

Barry was barely a year younger than Dick; he was two years older than Jason would be if he had lived. And the Bat had always kept his Robins away from the filthiest parts of Gotham, away from the darkest and most horrific parts of the city, of the job. 

But Dick was a police officer in a city just as – if not more – corrupt than Gotham. But Jason had died because…. Because. Bruce ground the heel of his palm over one eye, and then the other. Exhaled through his teeth.

“Either of you can ask,” he said. “I don’t want anything to do with this.” 

Clark’s cheek brushed over his jaw for the briefest of moments before he pulled away. Bruce told himself that the chill he felt was just the air. The words sounded unconvincing to even himself when the sky had lit up enough that he could see the grey of the concrete beneath him.

“Alright,” Diana said. “I’ll do the asking for all of them.”

Nodding, Bruce picked up his gauntlets and his cowl and put them back on. Now that Clark had let go of him, they could get back to business. “We have to get back to the police station,” he said, realising a little too late that he had forgotten the modulator. He switched it back on.

“Yeah,” Clark said, unfolding his legs and standing up. His cape swept out behind him, a splash of brilliant red under the rising sun, brighter than anything else on the street. “We need to get information, and make sure that those men get put away.”

Diana ran her lasso over her hand as she rose as well. She gave the two of them a smile that Bruce refused to read too much into. “It’s that way,” she said, pointing to the south. Without waiting for a reply, she stepped up the ledge at the edge of the roof, and jumped down. Clark blinked after her.

“I’m taking my car,” Bruce told him, already looking at the control panel on his wrist so he could call it to him remotely. “Go ahead first.”

“Sure,” Clark said, and floated down.

Bruce watched him go, and then waited. When the car turned around the corner, he hooked his grapple around the roof’s ledge, and lowered himself down into the street. As the roof closed over him, he tapped on his earpiece.

“Alfred,” he said. “Diana is terrible at giving directions.”

“The station’s address is already in the car and GPS is engaged,” Alfred’s dry voice replied. “Would you like me to engage the autopilot, too, sir?”

“You know,” Bruce said as he floored the accelerator. “I remember a time when I used to get a lot more respect around here.”

“Can’t think of when that is, sir. It must’ve been a figment of your imagination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from the superheroes, everything depicted in the second scene is real: Rue Saint-Denis is really one of Parisian red-light districts (there are three, this one is the most run-down), and it really does look like that and is in walking distance from Notre Dame; human trafficking rings smuggle more men for labour than they do women and girls for prostitution; organised crime activities are simplified for the sake of the plot – if it’s as complex as it is in real life, this fic will never actually be done – but the general outline is accurate; and _fenya_ is really the version of Russian spoken by criminals and prisoners. 
> 
> … I think it’s time right now for me to state that, no, I’m not involved in organised crime in any way. (Do I sound like Sionis? I think I might sound like Sionis. But I’m really not a criminal. Cross my heart and hope to die.)
> 
> Also, I know that with the _Wonder Woman_ sequel coming along and it being set during the Cold War, all that Diana had said is likely inaccurate to her actual pre- _Dawn of Justice_ backstory. In my defence, I wrote this scene before I heard about the plotline of the sequel, or really what Gal Gadot had said. I really hope that it still makes sense according to her characterisation.
> 
> Still desperately looking for time to reply to comments. /stares into the abyss that is her to-do list. I'm so sorry. I really do read and treasure all of them, I promise.


	9. sheeting (the ceiling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matches Malone gives a warning. The team starts to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Second scene: detailed depiction of the operations of the Russian mob and their dealings with the Russian government. Also, this chapter is over 10k words in length.

The lighter clicked. As Matches leaned back, orange flames licked at the rough-cut end of Mannheim's obnoxiously thick cigar. Heavy white smoke burst out between his lips as he exhaled; nearly enough to obscure the sight of nighttime Metropolis that backdropped the man.

Matches did his best to not wrinkle his nose. Mannheim's cigar smelled cheap, a lingering scent of burning plastic that an overly-strong perfume of cloves could not fully hide.

“What I can’t figure out,” Mannheim drawled out, “is what your stake in this is, Malone. You've always been Sionis's man.”

“That’s overestimating me, Mister Mannheim,” Matches drawled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I'm a man with a strong interest in the safety of my own neck.” He chewed on the stick in his mouth for a moment. Talking to Mannheim required a different tack than Sionis, because Sionis was obsessed with the keeping of power, while Mannheim was still trying to gain more of it. 

“Mister Sionis is a smart man, but this Kryptonite business... I ain't looking forward to being fried alive by a god's laser eyes, what can I say.”

“And you think it'll be safer with me?” Mannheim arched a thick brow.

As Matches frowned and pretended to think about his answer, silence settled between them, punctuated by the sound of voices from behind Matches's back. They were at the balcony of Mannheim's bar, a new venture situated in the middle of downtown Metropolis. A sign of his growing power in the city. He had insisted on Matches meeting him here because Mannheim had always liked his theatrical displays. 

Matches could almost appreciate a man like that. 

“I think,” he said slowly, contemplation in his voice as thick as the New Jersey accent, “you're a more careful man, Mister Mannheim. You've been here for months since he's come back, and he doesn't seem to know anything about you.”

Mannheim barked a laugh, the sound derisive. Still, there was enough of a smirk beneath his furry moustache to tell Matches that he had struck the right chord with the man. 

“That’s a dangerous gamble you’re taking, Malone,” Mannheim said, taking another drag of his cigar. “Maybe he’s just biding his time. Who knows how someone like that _really_ thinks?”

“He doesn’t seem like a guy who’d wait before interfering with stuff he doesn’t like,” Matches pointed out. “Doesn’t seem to be much for skulking ‘round, either.” He paused, and then shrugged. “We both know enough of the _other_ guy that he ain’t got much of subtlety, and the one flying ‘round the sky is likely the same. Have the same tailor, too.”

At the back of his mind, Matches vaguely hoped that the farmboy was listening in, and that he was laughing.

Because Mannheim was. Low chuckles, barely enough to make his shoulders shudder. “You might have a point there, Malone,” he said. “You might even be telling the truth.” His eyes narrowed, gaze resting on Matches for long moments as he took a particularly long drag of his cigar. The flaring orange flames flickered across the darkness of his eyes. “But that ain’t gonna convince me to do anything ‘bout this.”

But Matches already knew he had already been taking action; that this was all part of a game that Mannheim was playing because he thought himself to have information that Matches didn’t have. Matches could see it in those cold eyes that Mannheim had heard the rumours that the farmboy had been putting out among his contacts; that there had been whispers going around Gotham that Mannheim was stockpiling on Kryptonite.

In all honesty, Matches didn’t really need to be here. By the time he walked through the door, Mannheim was already half-convinced that it was Sionis who had been spreading the word, and that he needed to do something before Sionis could use the excuse of Mannheim encroaching into his territory to start a gang war. 

Matches was really just here to set up a time and place. One that would be for _his_ convenience.

Hunching his shoulders up higher, Matches looked at Mannheim over the top of his glasses. “Didn’t think it would,” he said. After a few moments to let that sink in, he continued, “You gotta know one more thing, Mister Mannheim.”

“And what’s that?”

“Mister Sionis ain’t got no plan to move his base out of Gotham,” Matches said. “And the city’s big brother in black ain’t afraid of Kryptonite except that it glows and might make him look even scarier.”

He could see the moment in which Mannheim understood the insinuation; the moment when the idea that Roman Sionis was seeking Kryptonite on the behest of someone else – someone huge, someone who might just have more funds than Sionis and Mannheim put together – coiled its poisonous vines around Mannheim’s brain and sank roots into it. He could see the greed lighting up in Mannheim’s eyes, a force even stronger than self-preservation for someone like him.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Mannheim swore.

Matches stifled a smile. This was the final nail that the plan needed; one that he needed to hammer in himself. Sure, it could possibly end up with him dead. Then again, it wasn’t as if he would be in any real danger: he could disappear into the ether whenever he needed to. The advantages of a shared body, as it were.

“Think it over, Mister Mannheim,” he drawled, pulling his hands out of his pockets while leaving his thumbs hooked into the corners of them. A more casual posture, but carefully ensuring that he wasn’t taunting Mannheim about being right. “Shipment is, like I said—” 

“In twenty-four hours,” Mannheim interrupted. He pulled back his sleeve, revealing a watch with a huge face and a gold band. “Twenty-two hours and thirty-four minutes, now.”

“Yeah,” Matches nodded. He tapped his temple with the side of two fingers in a makeshift salute. “I look forward to not being a fried husk tomorrow, Mister.”

Mannheim waved a hand, frown intensifying even further. Matches bowed again before he turned and stepped through the balcony doors. He headed to the bar, ordered a drink and told the guy to put it on Mannheim’s tab. The whiskey was chilled by some fancy ice ball, and Matches swirled the amber liquid around for a bit before he headed for the elevator with the glass. The glass was empty by the time the doors opened again, and Matches tucked it at a corner of a rail.

Shame to waste good alcohol. But Matches knew better than to eat or drink anything in one of Mannheim’s establishments.

It was still a few days early for his corpse to wash up on the banks of Gotham Harbour.

***

Air currents over the Atlantic were incredibly strong, roaring in Clark’s ears as he flew over the waters. But he had long gotten used to blocking out noise and focusing on what he wanted to hear. 

“—levees and retaining walls, with the drainage system covered—” Bruce.

“—a problem, isn’t it? I mean, it’s just a _blackout_ , and there’s even a backup generator and everything—” Barry.

“—get rid of those damned things, then. Do you know how difficult it is—” Arthur.

“—the worst possible person to talk to about this—” Victor.

The voices were distorted. Not by distance, but through bouncing against the bricks that filled the spaces in between the steel beams that Clark had set into place. When he checked the building the day before, Diana had been putting the ceiling on.

“—not going to drain and rebuild the entire lake just for your convenience—”

“—but you’re, like, the only person who could give me an idea about what to do, like, what do _you_ —” 

“—just one tunnel that leads straight to the Harbour, then I can stop hotwiring motorcycles whenever I want to visit your Cave and increasing your precious Gotham’s crime rate—”

“—don’t think about it all that much, honestly—” 

Five storeys of red unpainted bricks with grey steel beams peeking out between the columns of them, the wiring that Clark had put in tucked away with only the outlet points still showing. A piece of tarp had been draped haphazardly over the roof, its ragged edges fluttering in the breeze one storey off the ground. The hole was now covered by a massive metal door that, Clark knew, wouldn’t fold inwards but instead slide to not disturb the grass and soil that would soon be used to cover the entrance of the underground hangar. 

Clark headed in the direction of the voices – the west side of the building – and ducked in through one of the holes that would soon be covered by glass to become windows. He landed on the concrete floor just as Diana turned to him, smiling. 

He pulled one side of his lips upwards; the other side somehow felt a little too stiff for him to move while the other members of the team continued talking around him. He cleared his throat. 

Sudden silence. Four pairs of eyes turned towards him immediately. Clark kept his gaze fixed on Diana and tried to not fidget. “Am I late?” he asked.

“Only slightly,” Diana said. She wasn’t dressed as Wonder Woman, Clark realised: her hair was in a braid that rested on her shoulders, and she was covered from neck downwards in a black coat unbuttoned to show the dark red dress underneath. “Don’t worry, Kal. You haven’t kept us waiting for long.”

“She’s the only one who has been waiting,” Bruce said. Waistcoat, white shirt, slacks, and tie; but his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was seated in a rickety-looking folding chair, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “The rest of us were arguing.”

“You and Arthur were arguing,” Barry corrected, the cowl of his Flash uniform pulled to his neck and his hands flapping in the air. “Victor and I were having a _discussion_.”

“More like you were talking and I was trying to get you to stop talking,” Victor rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his oversized sweatshirt that couldn’t hide the glowing red light of the machinery that had taken over his heart’s job of keeping him alive. He gave Clark a lopsided smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Clark nodded back, a little awkward despite himself. Victor was the first one he laughed with when he first came back, but he hadn’t… he hadn’t talked to him since then.

“Okay, now that we’re all here, can we get down to business?” Arthur cut in. Clark blinked at the sight of him – a biker’s leather jacket wasn’t supposed to mesh so well with the Aquaman uniform, he was sure, but somehow Arthur made it work. “Some of us have work to do,” he continued.

“Sure,” Bruce said. He stood up, but before he could reach for what was obviously a projector connected to a laptop on the floor, Clark held up a hand.

“Before we start, can I just…” he hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to stare at the floor and meeting the eyes of the others in the room— of his _teammates_ instead. “Thank you for agreeing to help with this,” he said. “When I first started, I just… I just wanted to help one person, but Bruce was right that… that I can do more. That _we_ can do more.”

“Never say that again,” Arthur said.

“Huh?” Clark blinked.

“Don’t tell that bastard,” he jerked his thumb at Bruce, “that he’s right. His ego is big enough already.”

Diana walked over to him, her stiletto heels clicking on the floor. Then, without a word, she smacked him on the back of the head. Arthur practically flailed forward, yelping out “the fuck you did that for?” and being entirely ignored as Diana dropped down to one knee to switch the projector on.

“She means that you’re the one who is now keeping us from getting to business,” Barry interjected helpfully. Beside him, Victor’s lips twitched even as he passed something to Diana. It looked like a USB stick, except that it glowed the same shade of red as the light on his chest. Diana plugged it into the laptop, and the map of America’s east coast appeared as a two-dimensional hologram in the air.

Okay, so not the type of projector that Clark had been expecting, then. And he had been wondering about a screen.

“The basics of this case,” Bruce started, stepping forward with his hands in his pockets. “Clark and me, working separately, found out that Bruno Mannheim and Roman Sionis make use of trafficked women and girls from Romania in their prostitution operations in Metropolis and Gotham respectively.” Out of the corner of his eye, Clark noticed Victor’s fingers twitch. Two red spots appeared on the map – Suicide Slum and uptown Gotham. “Though the women were taken through different methods – coercion for the one in the Metropolis, kidnapping for the one in Gotham – I hypothesised that Mannheim and Sionis are using the same ring as their supplier. Using the information my source gave me, I traced possible routes that the ring could’ve used.”

Another shift of Victor’s fingers, and the map zoomed out, now showing the Atlantic Ocean and most of Europe. A single line appeared, starting from Greece and stretching out to Kosovo, Bosnia, and Croatia before spreading out towards several different countries. “In Paris, Diana and I found a truck full of men who had been trafficked from Hungary into France.” The line trailing from Croatia to Paris lit up. “The transporters spoke the Russian mob language of _fenya_ , and Diana used her lasso to confirm that they belong to the same group who transport Central European women and girls to America.” Bruce paused, turning to Diana.

“It’s a very big operation,” Diana picked up the thread, “consisting of several different human trafficking rings, specialising in either a single country in Central Europe, or in the transportation across borders. Each of these rings has its leaders, but all of them controlled are by a single mob group that is Russian in origin.” She paused, sighing. “Large enough that the men I interrogated don’t even know the name of the mob group that is truly controlling the operations.”

“Question,” Barry raised his hand. When Bruce cocked his head at him, he shifted from foot to foot, biting his lip. “I’m going to sound stupid, but… Why men?”

“Labourers,” Clark blurted out. When they turned to look at him, he ducked down his head and scratched at the back of his neck. “Western European countries are lacking in manpower for the industries that need manual labour. Like construction.” He took a deep breath. “And… and a lot of companies find it cheaper to… to buy trafficked labour than to send people over there and hire people to work for them legitimately. Especially when they have to pay the government fees for work permits.”

“The American equivalent are the illegal immigrants in the farms on the West Coast, especially California,” Victor said, arms crossed over his chest. His lips twisted. “Absolutely necessary for the rich countries to continue being rich, but treated like complete shit.”

“Slavery,” Diana whispered. “The name of what they’re doing is _slavery._ ” 

Clark closed his eyes and rubbed his knuckles over them. _If the Foundation starts talking about letting illegal aliens stay in Gotham to take up American jobs, it’s going to be a publicity nightmare,_ Simon Stagg had said. _No one’s doing those jobs_ , Mayor Galavan had replied. Clark didn’t need to wonder if they had truly considered the implication of those words; if they had ever wondered about _who_ , precisely, were doing those jobs that “no one” wanted to do. He knew that they hadn’t.

“Oh my god,” Barry said, sounding horrified. “I just… I never… I never _knew_ about this.” He swallowed. “I’ve… I’ve worked in construction and I never—”

Bruce picked up the folding chair, bringing it over and nudging Barry on the back of his knees with it. He ruffled the young man’s hair when Barry dropped down to sit. “Most people don’t,” he said. “Besides, constructions in America are staffed with people with a completely different set of problems.”

Swallowing, Barry looked up. “But you knew,” he said.

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded. “Wayne Holdings is international.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and suddenly looked very, very tired. “I can ensure that the European branch don’t get so obsessed with profit margins that they start using illegal labour, because if they lose money, there are other branches that can keep it afloat. But not everyone else can do that, or _want_ to do it, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.” 

Everything he had just said flew over Clark’s head. 

“And we come back to the idea that the big problem in the world is money,” Arthur said. He leaned forward, hands gripping the back of Barry’s chair, and sighed. “Let’s just move on with what we can do instead of trying to tackle _that_.”

“Right,” Bruce turned back to the map. “What we have all been doing the past month has been to try to figure out who the Russian mob group is. To try to get at least a _name_ of some sort.”

“They don’t have any dealings in Northern Europe,” Arthur said. “I checked Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Iceland. Zilch.” Another flick of Victor’s fingers, and the map zoomed in slightly such that those countries were out of sight.

“I was trailing the Italian routes,” Barry said, pointing towards particular lines on the map, ones that led towards Milan, Florence, and Naples. “Some of the people headed towards Milan and Florence, but the majority headed for Naples.” He paused. “Do you all know about the Camorra?”

“Assume that we don’t,” Diana suggested. Behind her, the routes leading from Greece to Naples lit up.

“The Naples version of the Sicilian mafia,” Barry shrugged. “I got lucky – kind of – because I actually managed to follow one particular group. I understood nothing of what they said, but the descriptions of the guys who came to receive the Russians fit exactly the descriptions of the Camorra that Victor found for me on the Internet.” 

“No trails to Sicily?” Bruce asked. Barry shook his head. 

“I checked out Central Europe,” Clark said, realising that it was his turn. “Stood over the region and listened for talks.” After Diana had given him a list of keywords and phrases to listen for in the various languages of the region. “I didn’t manage to catch a name, but disappearances are noted most in Romania and Hungary, followed by Slovakia and Croatia.” He paused. “Nothing from Ukraine, as far as I can tell.”

“This is fucking _huge_ ,” Barry breathed out. 

Diana nodded at him. “It gets worse,” she said. “My contacts with the French police told me something abhorrent and interesting. There had been raids conducted in Paris and Monaco,” she tapped on the map, and those cities lit up, “and they had found clues regarding the identity of our Russian mob. They turned the information over to the Interpol, but the trail always went cold the moment they got into the Russian border.”

She looked at the rest of them over her shoulder. “The Russian police will not cooperate.”

“When Diana told me that, I followed a hunch,” Victor spoke up. “Cablegate.” He curled his fingers, and a separate hologram appeared next to the map – a page on Wikipedia. “In 2010 and 2011, WikiLeaks published a bunch of classified US diplomatic cables. And within them are a _lot_ of mentions of Vladimir Putin and his connections to the Russian mob, especially those with their headquarters in Moscow.”

“No connections with Northern Europe, Sicily or Ukraine,” Bruce said, counting the points on his fingers. “Markets are primarily in France, Naples, and America. Headquarters in Moscow, with a potential connection with Putin himself, or at least his administration.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I had a hunch, so I went through my contacts and made up an algorithm to pick up images from satellites and CCTV cameras that Victor culled for me.”

Turning to the map, he tapped to the side of it, out of the frame. Victor obligingly zoomed it out until the southeast of the country could be seen. “Sionis and Mannheim both had their trafficked victims delivered from one specific location,” Bruce said. He reached out and tapped a city in Georgia.

“Atlanta,” he said softly. “And the shipments – drugs, people, both – come through Charleston in South Carolina. The Isle of Palms, in fact.”

“Wait,” Barry jerked his head up. “Isn’t that a pretty rich place? Like… golf courses and such?”

“Yes,” Bruce nodded. “Which means that whoever these guys are, they are very, very well-established in the area.” His lips curved up into a small smile as he bent down, tapping on the laptop’s keys. Victor raised an eyebrow at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Another window appeared to the other side of the map from the Cablegate Wikipedia page. Bruce had pulled up _Google_.

“The Solntsevskaya bratva,” Bruce said, voice very soft _._ “Established in Atlanta ever since the nineties. Specialising in mostly drugs, especially hard drugs, for a long time, but they branched out at the same time as the Moscow division.” 

“They have a Wikipedia page,” Barry said, voice strangled as he pointed at the link that Bruce’s cursor was hovering on. “They have… Oh my _god_.”

“Yes,” Bruce said, and clicked on it. “They do.”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Arthur breathed.

“I don’t understand,” Diana said, sounding confused. “What does this… _bratva_ ,” her Russian pronunciation was, expectedly, perfect, “having a Wikipedia page mean?”

“Wikipedia needs established sources,” Bruce explained, scrolling down to the reference section. “Pieces that are established and have been fact-checked by others to be legitimate.” He paused. “In other words, all of these names, all of these activities, have been discovered _and_ verified by journalists and investigators, and made public. The information is right there, and the group still thrives.”

“They can’t be caught,” Diana said, a hand flying to her mouth. “It is known to the public that they are criminals, and they haven’t been caught.”

“In other words,” Bruce said, voice dry and sardonic, “these people make Mannheim and Sionis look like amateurs.”

Clark dragged a hand down his face so he would stop staring at the two pages and the map in front of him. “Usually,” he said, forcing the words out of a closing throat, “when a journalist gets information like this, they publish an article, and let the police deal with the rest. But that’s… obviously not going to work here.”

“Probably not,” Bruce said, standing up. He turned to look at all of them. “I propose a three-prong attack, carried out over a week. Maximum ten days.” _We have delayed this long enough,_ he left unspoken, but it was loud among them.

“Go on,” Diana murmured, nodding.

“Offence, exposure, call to action,” Bruce said, ticking off his fingers again. “Offence on four different fronts: Sionis in Gotham, Mannheim in Metropolis, and the bratva in both Moscow and Atlanta. We hit Sionis and Mannheim first, simultaneously, and then the bratva, also both at the same time.” He turned to Victor. “Do you know the location of their headquarters?”

“Nope,” Victor shrugged. “But if you give me an hour, maybe two, I can get the exact addresses for you.” 

“Seriously?” Barry gaped at him.

Victor spread out his hands. “Information age. I’m literally connected to everything that has ever tried to send a signal to anywhere,” he said. 

“We hit their headquarters destroy them. Set free whoever we can find,” Bruce continued. “Make it loud, make it overt. No hiding, no secrecy. Make sure that everyone knows that it’s us doing it.”

Slowly, Diana nodded. “What’s the second portion?”

“Exposure,” Bruce said. He turned to Clark suddenly. “You were planning on an article?”

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. “I’ll need more detailed notes from all of you about this operation, and then I’m good to go.” He paused, thinking it over. “Given how big the scale this is, I think I can convince Perry to let me have front page for three days in a row. First day for Mannheim and Sionis, second day for the bratva in Atlanta and their operations throughout America, and third day for the international rings that the bratva in Moscow controls.” He tapped his fingers on his chin. “If we plan this right, the first article comes out the day after our raids in Gotham and Metropolis, and the second the day after Atlanta and Moscow, and the third the day after that.”

He realised, suddenly, that they were all looking at him. Clark ducked his head down. “That way, we don’t have to explain ourselves,” he said. “But people will know the reasons behind our actions.”

“Brilliant,” Bruce said. Clark hastily stifled that rush of warmth he felt at the praise. “Diana, you’re okay with the plan?”

“You said exposure,” Diana said, her lips twitching at the corner. “Is Clark going to do all of it?”

Bruce shook his head. “Clark’s doing the heavy lifting, but… Victor, can you whip up a proper translation programme?” 

“Sure,” Victor shrugged.

“Translate Clark’s third article, have Diana or me to look them over – depending on the language – and then send them out to the major news outlets all over Europe and Russia,” Bruce said. “The first two articles won’t need to be translated, but I’ll need you to send them to all the major news outlets in America.”

“Perry is going to be pissed off about that,” Clark blurted out. “He’d want an exclusive.”

“The _Planet_ will have their exclusive,” Bruce nodded. “They get the first twelve hours, and _then_ we send them out.” When Clark blinked at him, Bruce shrugged. “I don’t want you to get into trouble at your job.”

“Twenty-four hours would be easier to convince him with, but he shouts at everyone all the time anyway,” Clark said, shoving down another burst of warmth. The back of his neck felt very hot, and he told himself to not touch it. “Twelve hours is fine.”

“Okay, so,” Arthur cut in, his eyes flicking between Clark and Bruce with one brow raised. “What else?”

“Call to action,” Bruce replied, turning back to face the team. “That part, I have nothing to do with, so… Diana?”

Nodding at him, Diana folded her arms. “My source with the French police is the Director-General.” She paused when she realised all of the men excluding Bruce were staring at her, and Bruce’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. “Well, I asked nicely for a meeting, and he obliged.” She waved a hand, and Bruce was practically convulsing standing up. “In any case, I can get a meeting with the head of Interpol. A public one.”

Clark cocked his head to the side. “Actually…” He looked from Diana to Arthur and back again. “Diana of Themyscira,” he said, pointing at her. “Arthur from Atlantis.”

“Orin,” Arthur corrected. “My Atlantean name is Orin.”

Nodding, Clark repeated, “Orin of Atlantis.” He pointed to himself. “Kal-El of Krypton.” He tapped his fingers on his elbow, thinking. “Technically, we can be considered to be representatives of sovereign territories.”

“What are you thinking?” Diana asked.

“Call for a press conference,” Clark said, shrugging. “Demand a meeting with the UN and the Interpol and the governments of various countries as representatives or,” he nodded at Arthur, “a head of state.” The image of Bruce in the boardroom, that first time Clark had listened in. “We put pressure on them as people who stand equal to them in terms of political power and positions and call for them to…” he trailed off.

“To do their fucking jobs with regards to crime?” Victor offered.

“Yeah, that,” Clark grinned out of the corner of his mouth at him. 

“No,” Bruce said. When Clark turned to him, Bruce took a step forward. “King Orin of Atlantis, yes. Princess Diana of Themyscira, yes. But not Kal-El of Krypton.” His eyes were very bright as he fixed on Clark. “Superman of Metropolis, Kansas-born and bred. Kal-El of Earth, without borders because your hearing picks up the sounds of suffering from every corner, and your heart goes out to every single one of them.”

It was a good thing that Clark didn’t need to breathe, because he didn’t think he could, right now.

“Uh,” Barry said. “Is… there something going on with the two of you?”

Bruce jerked his eyes away from Clark, focusing on some spot on a brick wall. The tips of his ears were red.

“It’s not a good idea for Clark to emphasise that he is from Krypton,” he said, voice loud enough to make Arthur raise _both_ eyebrows this time. Victor was biting his lip, and Diana was laughing into her hand. Barry, thankfully, still looked confused, so there was still _some_ dignity remaining there.

“If he calls attention to the fact that he’s an alien, that’s the first thing the leaders will go for,” Bruce continued, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Arthur, Diana, they will try to say that neither of you have a right to interfere with the affairs of the world given that your countries have kept yourselves in isolation so far.”

Diana lowered her hand. She continued to grin widely as she said, “We’ll figure something out with that. But Clark’s plan is good.”

“Of course it is,” Arthur said, his voice pitched slightly higher and raspier and his eyes fixed on Bruce. “He’s Superman. Everything he does is awesome. He even makes breathing awesome.”

“I really hope you can talk to fish,” Bruce said through gritted teeth, glaring at Arthur. “Because clearly no one else in the world can stand to have a conversation with you.”

He was imitating _Bruce’s_ _voice_ , Clark realised suddenly. He tried to not blush too obviously. It should be easy given that he was supposed to be able to control every part of his body, but, somehow, he could feel the rising heat on his cheeks anyway.

“Vic,” Barry whispered very loudly. “ _Vic_ , is Arthur implying what I think he’s implying?”

“Shut up,” Victor hissed back, just as loud. “They are both _right here_. You have the _worst_ timing.”

Clark gave up and just buried his face into his hands.

“Yes,” he heard Diana say, unfairly coherent despite her obvious chuckles. “Arthur is indeed implying exactly that, Barry.” 

“ _Moving on_ ,” Bruce said, practically shouting as he waved a hand swiftly through the air. Arthur made a sound between a bark of laughter and a snort. “We need a timeline.”

Slowly, Clark lowered his hands. He took a deep breath and told his blood to quit rushing north so zealously already. “I need three days before I can finish the articles,” he said. “At least.” And that would give him time to visit Ramona and warn her about the storm that was headed her way, at the very least.

“I’ll use that to get that translation programme up and running, and also find the exact locations of the Bratva’s headquarters and main areas that we can hit,” Victor offered. 

Diana nodded, folding her arms together as she looked at them. “We have our strategy,” Diana said. “My suggestion for tactics is this: Superman, Aquaman, and the Flash hit Sionis in Gotham; Batman, Cyborg, and myself, we hit Mannheim in Metropolis.” Bruce opened his mouth, clearly about to argue, but Diana held up a hand and shook her head at him. “We must ensure that our efforts look coordinated, and part of the point of this operation is to ensure that people know that borders would not restrict or deter us in seeking out justice. Batman _cannot_ stay in Gotham’s borders.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, but Diana met his gaze. An entire argument seemed to be carried through that alone; one that Bruce clearly lost when he sighed. “Fine.”

“Clark,” Diana turned to him. “Contact all of us when you’re finished with the articles. On that day, or perhaps the day after that, we perform the raids on the two cities. Afterwards, we hit the bratva in Moscow and Atlanta.”

“Will do,” Clark nodded, and fought the urge to salute her.

“Anything else?” Diana asked.

“Just one more thing,” Bruce said. When eyes turned towards him, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I have, essentially, incited a gang war between Mannheim and Sionis, it’s going to happen tonight, and I need a couple of people to help me ensure that things go according to plan.”

Slowly, Clark blinked at him. He wasn’t, he realised, the only one. “What?” _Tonight?_ Bruce didn’t inform him about this particular part, and here he was thinking that they had agreement to not keep important things from each other anymore. 

“If we’re going to succeed with the raid, they need to be out of the way, and their organisations in a mess,” Bruce said. “Also, Sionis has been branching out into the weapons market.” He paused for a moment. “Specifically, weapons to take us out.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us _before_ this?” Arthur asked. Clark had to agree with him. All Clark knew about the Sionis situation was that purple building in uptown Gotham; when had Bruce found out about the weapons he was gathering, and why hadn’t he _told Clark_? 

“It was being handled,” Bruce waved a dismissive, impatient hand. A muscle in Clark jaw twitched. 

“Let me finish,” Bruce continued, crossing his arms. “The plan is that Mannheim had been informed last night about a shipment of Kryptonite arriving at Gotham Harbour at Sionis’s behest. Before that, I had already intercepted Sionis’s next shipment of weapons in Houma, but I faked communications to him that it will still be arriving.” He glanced at Clark for a moment. “There is no actual Kryptonite. I confiscated it from Sionis already.”

“You didn’t tell _me,_ ” Clark blurted out. When his teammates’ eyes turned towards him, he clicked his mouth shut and hissed out a breath between his teeth. “How long has this been going on? When were you going to actually tell us that we might be in danger because people are making specialised weapons to take us out?”

“It never came up before today,” Bruce said, gaze fixed on an empty spot of wall to the left of Clark’s shoulder. “Besides, the plan has always been to remove Mannheim and Sionis from power, which will also neutralise the threats against you.”

“No, it won’t,” Clark shot back immediately, eyes narrowing because he couldn’t believe that Bruce had just said that. Not just to the team, but to _him_. “You know better than I do that men like that don’t manufacture weapons. They’re traders. _Middlemen_. If Sionis is dealing in such things, it means that there are people out there who are making the stuff. People who are creating the demand for it.” 

Like there was a demand for the girls. Like there was a supply of the men. 

For a long moment, Bruce didn’t speak. Then he sighed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Alright,” he said. He lowered his eyes, and his gaze met theirs one by one. Clark was last and lingered the longest. “I caught Sionis’s shipment back in March.” It was already past July; that was more than four months ago. “I’ve been trying to track his potential buyers, but the trail keeps running cold. Which speaks for itself, really.”

“What—” Barry started, but Victor put a hand on his shoulder, silencing him without shifting his gaze from Bruce. When Clark glanced over to him, he could see that Victor understood.

There was only one entity who had the power to stay completely invisible when making deals like these with organised crime: the administration in D.C. with arms all over the country. 

“I could’ve told all of you,” Bruce said, voice growing softer and heavier. “But what you would have liked me to say? That, no matter how hard you try, there will always be people who are afraid and who will try to take you down? That, no matter how you present yourselves, there will always be people who would think you as a threat? That…” He took a shuddering breath. “No matter how many of them you take out, no matter how much you protect yourselves, there will always be others to replace them?”

A name hovered between them: _Lex Luthor_. He wasn’t the only one. He would never be the only one. Clark closed his eyes, but that didn’t stop the memories from resurfacing. Bruce’s voice, in his head: _What makes this girl so special, Clark? Is it because you found her? What about the replacement that Mannheim is surely going to find to take her place?_

That conversation had happened in March, too. 

When Clark had first put on his uniform, when he first understood both what his Dad and Jor-El had meant when they talked about _responsibility_ , he thought he knew the start. He thought he knew the goal at the end. But now, looking at the exhaustion etched at the sides of Bruce’s eyes and the sinking horror darkening Barry’s bright ones, he understood all too well that he hadn’t understood what he was getting into. 

And now it was far too late to get out. Too late for any of them.

“Someone I know told me once,” Diana said, her calm, even voice breaking Clark out of his reverie. When he glanced in her direction, he noticed that her lips curved up slightly on the sides and her eyes were unfocused. “That people aren’t always good, but that matters less than what you believe.” She looked down at her hands. “If we believe that we’re here to make the world better, then that’s what we can hold on to.” 

She shook her head. “You should’ve allowed us to decide.”

“We’re not exactly innocents when it comes to knowing that people can be bastards,” Victor said. He glanced at all of them. “Right?”

Barry let out a laugh, soft and shaky. “I used to work in retail, man,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “The scales and stakes aren’t the same, but… Yeah. I know.”

Bruce looked at all of them for long moments. “Sorry,” he said, shoulders curving downwards. “I’m… I should’ve told all of you. Sorry.”

Funny thing: Clark wanted to be angry with him; wanted to be indignant and outraged that Bruce still kept secrets despite everything that Clark had told him, everything that Clark had learned. But looking at Bruce now, his lips pressed into a tight line and eyes lowered, he couldn’t find the rage. He just felt tired. Salt and bile weighed heavily on the back of his throat.

Because now he had another reason for why Bruce had tried to kill him. Why he had thought it was necessary. How many people had Bruce watched being worn down by this endless struggle? How many of those had the kind of power that Clark owned?

“What do you need help with?” Arthur said. When all of them looked at him, he shrugged. “Look, right now we work on saving the world by getting rid of some of the bastards. Talking about motivation to keep fighting, figuring out who the _other_ bastards are… Way I see it, that can all wait. We do this one step at a time.” 

“A sensible plan,” Diana said, flashing him a wider smile. Arthur ducked his head down, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“I need people who are bulletproof,” Bruce said. “There will be a maximum one hundred men who would be heavily armed and ready to shoot at each other. All of them have to be disarmed before the GCPD arrive.”

Back to business. Clark took a deep breath and did a mental count. “That’s four of us,” he said, nodding at Arthur, Diana, and Victor.

“Not you,” Bruce said, and he wasn’t looking at Clark again. “The exchange will take place at the abandoned docks.”

The docks. _Those_ docks. The place where Clark had fought that monster. The place where… well, the place where Clark had died. 

Well. Clark took a step forward, and then another. He raised his hand to hover an inch away from Bruce’s jaw, resting it there until Bruce turned to look at him.

“I’m going,” he said, hoping that he sounded firmer than he felt. “Even if the Kryptonite isn’t with Sionis anymore, that’s the first thing he found. Not to mention that I’m the most bulletproof one around here.” When Bruce opened his mouth, Clark shook his head. “Look, either you agree to let me help, or I’ll just barge in at the most inopportune time and probably make you crash your car again.”

“He made you _crash your car_?” Barry blurted out from behind them.

Bruce ignored him. His eyes on Clark were very dark, full of shadows and unspoken words that were all twisted up into guilt. Clark didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Even if Bruce was doing this for Clark because he could and he cared to, Clark _didn’t_ want him to do it. He didn’t need Bruce to protect him, and making sure that people didn’t end up dead was more important than Clark possibly being in danger

“Fine,” Bruce said finally. “Tonight. Zero two hundred hours.”

“Got it,” Clark nodded.

“You’re not keeping me away,” Victor said, crossing his arms. “It’s Gotham. It’s my city, and I’ve wanted to punch Sionis in the face for a while.”

“Not me,” Diana shook her head. “I have to get back to Paris.”

“Atlantis stuff,” Arthur waved a hand. “If you’d told us _earlier_ —”

“Let me come with you guys,” Barry interrupted him. When Bruce turned to him, eyebrow raised, Barry crossed his arms and tipped up his chin. “I’m not bulletproof, but neither are you, and I can dodge them easily _and_ snatch the guns out of their hands faster than they can blink.”

So, Clark wasn’t the only one who had a problem with Bruce being overprotective towards them, then. It was nearly enough to make him smile.

Bruce didn’t speak for long moments, his gaze fixed on Barry but the light in his hazel eyes were unfocused. Clark wondered if he was thinking about Grayson. Or was he thinking of Jason Todd, that boy who died before he was grown? 

When had Clark gotten to know Bruce well enough to even guess what he was thinking? When had that thought begun to make the lump in his throat grow larger even when it felt easier to breathe?

Closing his eyes, Bruce rubbed his knuckles over his nose. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll send all of you the coordinates of the docks later.” He took a deep breath and let it out through gritted teeth. “And, if there is nothing else, I have to get back to Gotham.”

“You’re the only one with other business than what we came here for,” Arthur pointed out, seemingly unable to stop himself. When Bruce cocked an eyebrow at him, he flared out the collar of his jacket and headed for one of the windows.

“Wait,” Diana called out. When Arthur stopped, she folded her arms and looked at them. “I presume that the construction of the headquarters will be paused during this particular mission, so over the next three days, whoever can help out, should come and fix up everything.” One side of her lips quirked up. “It wouldn’t be good if we still only have a half-constructed structure to call our own when we’re standing in front of the eyes of the world.”

“She has a point there,” Victor said. He glanced at Clark. “You do your writing thing, the rest of us fix this up asap.”

“I’m bowing out,” Bruce said. When they looked at him, he sighed. “There’s clean-up with regards to Sionis and Mannheim to ensure that they don’t get out on bail before the raids, and some matters with the Foundation to handle.” He paused. “And patrol to make sure that small-time crooks don’t try to fill in the vacuum Sionis left too quickly.”

“You have _way_ too much shit to do,” Barry told him, shaking his head as he stood from the chair. “Anyway, that’s four of us. Right, Arthur?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur said, giving them all a middle finger. “I’ll be here.” He jumped out of the window, the _thump_ of his feet hitting the grass punctuating the end of the sentence.

Diana looked at all of them again before she nodded and left. Victor plucked out the USB-like stick from the laptop and followed her, glancing at Barry for a moment before the young man did as well. Clark watched them for a moment, toying with the edge of his cape, before he turned towards Bruce.

“I’ll bring the Kryptonite tonight,” Bruce said without looking at Clark, his hands busy with switching off the laptop and projector. “You’ll have to find somewhere safe—” 

“Keep it,” Clark interrupted him.

Bruce’s head turned around so quickly that Clark was worried for a moment that he would give himself whiplash. “What?”

Clark smiled. “Keep it,” he repeated. “You probably have better places to keep it safe than I do.” Aside from his apartment and the farm house, Clark didn’t exactly have resources that would ensure that the Kryptonite didn’t end up in unsavoury hands. And he wasn’t going to implicate Lois or his mother if the thing was found in the places they lived. “So… Keep it.”

“Oh,” Bruce said. He was still staring.

“Anyway, uh,” Clark ducked his head down. He rubbed the back of his neck and took a steadying breath through his teeth. “I actually was going to ask you if… if, uh, you need a lift.” 

Bruce continued to stare. Just as Clark was about to give into the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot, those hazel eyes softened. “I brought the car,” he said. “And I need to bring it back with me.” 

Technically, Clark could lift the car _and_ Bruce without any problems. Most likely with Bruce in the car. But Bruce would know that as well, and he was still refusing, so…

“Yeah,” Clark said. He bit his lip. “Alright. I’ll just…” He flapped his hand towards the window. “See you tonight?”

“Tonight,” Bruce echoed. He gave Clark a lopsided smile that Clark tried to not read too much into. He tried to not think too hard about why his heart was thundering in his ears, either.

“Okay,” Clark said. He forced his feet to start moving towards the window. “Uh. Bye.”

Grabbing the window frame, he ducked his head underneath it and jumped out… and promptly floated sideways so he didn’t land on top of Barry. Clark blinked.

“The two of you,” Barry told him solemnly, “are very bad at this.”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. “Bye,” he said, far more decisively this time. Then he decided that discretion was really the better part of valour – especially as literally everyonewas standing below the windowsill and he somehow hadn’t _noticed_ – and took off into the air.

He should apologise to Bruce tonight for leaving him to the sharks that were their too-curious teammates. Even if Bruce might actually deserve it for keeping important information from them, Clark should.

Zero two hundred hours. He had a few hours to try to rehearse something to say, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Solntsevskaya Bratva is real and is on Wikipedia and has a branch in Atlanta. The attribution of the stated activities to them is fictional, but, again, that’s actually how mob groups work in general. 
> 
> Also, organised crime and the government tend to have a symbiotic relationship. For example, the yakuza in Japan are legaland the police keep track of their activities instead of arresting them; the Camorra in Naples made a lot of profits through government contracts in waste disposal; the Hong Kong triads controlled the entirety of the island in the seventies through having heads of government organisations in their pockets; the mainland Chinese government use black societies to enforce their rule over rural populations in exchange for turning a blind eye to their activities; and, in Russia, Putin does a combination of Hong Kong and mainland China and does it so obviously that Russia is frequently called a _mafia state._
> 
> Clark and Bruce are still disasters, but they’re getting somewhere, at least. Very slowly.


	10. glazing (the windows)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne sets a few more plans into motion. Matches Malone and Clark Kent deliver warnings. Batman, Cyborg, Superman, and the Flash stop a gang war that Batman provoked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: Discussion of Trump-era immigration policies; in particular the RAISE act. Last scene: _Violence_. Specifically, Clark dishing out Batman-styled violence and fear, and the immediate aftermath of that on him that can be described as catatonia that leads to a panic attack. 
> 
> Also, in general: this chapter is very long. I actually recommend that you stop reading after the third scene, take a break, and then read the last scene after an hour or two of break. I put them all together for thematic reasons, but you don’t have to read it all at once, I promise.

“You look tired,” Tiffany Fox greeted. 

Bruce tipped his head up. She was standing on the opposite side of the coffee table, head tilted to the side in an angle that caught the dimming purples of Gotham’s summer sunset in the ink black of the curls framing her face and the smooth skin on the sides of her eyes and mouth. Tiffany had been barely within school-going age when Bruce had returned from his travels and wrestled his company back from the control of those who didn’t deserve to have it, but now she was a grown woman. One with enough strength, intelligence, and cynicism to take over the more stressful parts of her father’s job after Lucius’s health scare.

Mainly public relations.

“It’s been a busy few weeks,” Bruce said. “There’s a lot that has been happening.” To say the least: he kept a change of clothes in the car so that he could change in the office; Tiffany wasn’t the kind of employee who would take any of Bruce Wayne’s excuses for lateness.

“I’ll bet,” she said, pulling off her suit jacket and draping it on the back of the metal chair before sitting down. Immediately, she drew out her pack of her cigarettes from her pocket and lit one up, taking a long drag. 

“Those things are going to kill you,” Bruce pointed out. He might have converted the rooftop of the main Wayne Enterprise building into a mock-café – so that the smokers could do _something_ constructive while they were indulging their addictions – but he still felt those words to be necessary to say. Part of the duties that came with age, he supposed.

“It’s my way of not going crazy and killing everyone,” Tiffany shot back, grinning out of the corner of her mouth as she blew smoke in his general direction. “But to business, Bruce: Have you given a name to the thing that’s going to be my headache for the next few months?”

“The Six Swans,” Bruce said. He shrugged at Tiffany’s incredulous stare. “Sionis forces his victims to go by the names of Disney princesses. It’ll be a good tribute to them.”

“Explaining the name already looks like a PR nightmare,” Tiffany drawled, shaking her head. “Why can’t you go with something recognisable like Cinderella if you’re just looking for a fairytale?”

“Because the story fits well with the purpose of the organisation,” Bruce said. When she continued to stare at him, eyes unblinking above the orange embers of his cigarette, he sighed. Folding his hands together on top of the table, he explained:

“A king is blackmailed into marrying someone and making her his queen. The new queen proceeds to get rid of the king’s children from his previous marriage, six sons and a daughter, by turning the sons into swans. All of them are chased out of their home. The daughter finds that she can turn her brothers back into humans if she doesn’t speak for seven years, and if she weaves nettle shirts with her bare hands to put on her brothers after those years.” 

“Okay…” Tiffany nodded, still clearly uncomprehending.

“I’m not done,” Bruce pointed out. Once she had settled back into listening, he continued, “Eventually, a king of another country meets the princess and falls in love with her beauty, and he brings her back with him. The mother of the king doesn’t like the princess and makes her suffer by exchanging the children the princess has with the king with animals and accuses the princess of being a witch. The princess can’t defend herself because of her silence, so she is sentenced to be burnt at the stake. She finishes up the shirts while in prison and gets her hands bloody and torn in the process. On the day that she is supposed to die, the swans come to her and she throws the shirts on them just as the fires are lit. Her brothers turn back into humans and she can speak again. So, she defends herself against the accusations and lives happily ever after with her husband.”

Tiffany didn’t speak for long moments, silently smoking with a furrow growing between her brows. “The salient points,” she said, tapping her cigarette on the side of the ashtray. “Parent blackmailed resulting in children being chased away from home. Arduous quest given to return to normalcy. New home found, but new home is also abusive and dangerous, so quest gets even more difficult. Eventually, the girl triumphs, solves the problem, and is accepted in the new home.”

“Yes,” Bruce nodded.

“I can spin this into something that people will find clever, at least,” Tiffany said, leaning back against her chair. “But it’s going to take more than a fairytale-inspired name to go against the RAISE act.”

Just the mention of the act was enough to make the back of Bruce’s throat itch for the burn of alcohol. But he had managed to keep himself from drinking while doing proper work with Wayne Enterprises and Foundation for years, and he wasn’t going to start slipping now. So, he picked up the water bottle he had grabbed from the table at the corner of the rooftop, unscrewing it with unnecessary force as he slammed a mouthful of it back like it was whiskey.

“No,” he said. “Nothing will be enough.”

The RAISE act proposed to cut green cards issued per year by half, place a cap of fifty thousand on refugees admitted into the country per year, and restrict pathways for legal citizens to get legal residency status for their family members and spouses.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Tiffany said, stubbing her cigarette out. “You’re talking about giving visas and future permanent residency and citizenship to illegal immigrants here. It spits in the fact of every single one of Trump’s campaign promises.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. He placed the bottle carefully on the table, leaning back against his chair. “That’s the precise purpose of it, actually.”

“To give the White House a middle finger?” Tiffany raised her brows at him.

“Not that,” Bruce shook his head. “But to do something _right_ for the people who have been kidnapped and brought here through coercion and lies, and no longer have any homes to return to. Even if it goes against the law.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce noticed the rooftop door opening. It was a young woman, barely in her twenties, and she immediately backed out and closed the door when she took in the sole two occupants of the space. It was nearly enough to make him smile; Tiffany had drummed that particular memo into the employees’ heads pretty well.

Good thing there were other smoking areas in the building. 

Tiffany hummed quietly under her breath, bringing his attention back to her. She lit up another cigarette and smoke escaped from between her lips as she said, “There are two options that we can take with this.” She held out a hand, ticking off one finger. “One, we come to a deal with the government that Six Swans will be given a stipulated number of visas to issue to the people that we’re taking in.”

“That’s not an option,” Bruce said immediately. His own words came back to haunt him: _What makes this girl so special, Clark?_ “Even just asking for the deal will be bad. It’ll give the media _and_ the politicians ammo to talk about how the one percent gets special favours. It’ll make me a scapegoat for Trump to use to prove that he’s actually working for ‘the people.’” He didn’t use air quotes, but he suspected that Tiffany could hear them anyway.

Unlike most others in the company, Tiffany didn’t look surprised that Bruce could actually predict the political consequences of his actions. Bruce knew for a fact that Lucius had never told her who he was and what he did at night, but she was too clever a person to be fooled by the guise of Bruce Wayne. 

Not that he had ever tried particularly hard with her. Tiffany had always been the likeliest successor amongst Lucius’s children.

“The second option is the one that I think you’ve already decided on,” Tiffany said. She exhaled hard, rubbing at her temple with her knuckle. “We go ahead with the opening ceremony and declare our intentions, give the women jobs within WE and its subsidiaries, and raise a gigantic fuss about human rights and the meaning of being an American if the government doesn’t give us the work permits quickly enough.”

Picking up his water bottle again, Bruce toasted her with it before he threw another mouthful back.

“Jesus Christ,” Tiffany swore. She took a long, deep drag of her cigarette. “And here I thought you’re more reasonable than bulldozing through every single thing.” Something must have shown on his face because she narrowed her eyes at him. “What _now_?”

“Six Swans is specialising in human trafficking victims,” Bruce said. He screwed the cap back onto the bottle and gave Tiffany a lopsided smile. “Which means that the UN is probably going to get involved, especially with the kind of people who are going to bring the women to us.”

“The kind of people,” Tiffany repeated. “ _Please_ don’t tell me—” 

“I think,” Bruce steepled his fingers in front of him, “the opening ceremony of Six Swans would be a good opportunity for me to announce my official sponsorship of the superhero team that saved the world from destruction.”

Tiffany very carefully placed her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. Then she slapped her hand against her face and dragged it down slowly. “Please tell me that you’re fucking with me.”

“No,” Bruce said. He tapped his fingers on the table until she looked up and met his eyes. “Listen, there are two main themes that I want us to run with regarding this whole thing.” He wanted until she nodded. “Firstly, it is the idea of common humanity. For example, Superman doesn’t draw borders or differentiate people who need help, and neither should any of us.”

“That’s going to be easy to sell,” Tiffany muttered sarcastically. Bruce ignored her.

“Secondly,” he continued, “it is that the priority of those with power – any kind of power – should use it to help those who are left destitute. For example, the superheroes who stepped up to the plate and saved the world when no one else could’ve done it.” 

“Wait,” Tiffany said, sitting up suddenly. “You’re proposing to present this superhero team as an image— no, a symbol, a role model, an _example_ for behaviour to emulate, and what WE and the Foundation are just following that.” When Bruce nodded, she scrambled for her cigarette and took another drag. “The same superheroes that every powerful organisation and governing body is living in fear of.”

“That’s precisely the point,” Bruce said. “The focus right now is on their power, and how it makes them terrifying. That focus needs to shift to what they’re _doing_ with their power – which is to help people – and what that implies regarding our own actions as normal human beings.”

“Let me get this straight,” Tiffany said. “My to-do list is, one, act as public relations manager for a team of superheroes whom I haven’t even _met_ , two, create an image for a charity organisation that goes against everything that our government proposes to do _without_ making use of the fact that it’s backed by a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate with a huge effect on the economy, and three, to sell a fairytale to the American public _and_ your goddamned shareholders.”

“I can probably arrange a meeting,” Bruce said. He should also _tell_ the team about what he was planning to do with their image. They would, like Diana had said, want to know, even if there wouldn’t be much they could do. Bruce didn’t understand their reasoning, but he could abide by their wishes, at least.

“Also,” he continued, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “don’t worry about the shareholders.”

Tiffany paused in the middle of putting another cigarette between her lips. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, and took her momentary distraction as a chance to snatch the cigarette away, tucking it to the corner of the table. He ignored her glare. “The funds for the League will be coming out of my personal finances.” She nodded slowly. “Besides,” he continued, “I own fifty-seven percent of the shares of WE, and Colonel Kane has another ten percent. That’s sixty-seven; exactly two-thirds.” Enough of a majority that the minority’s wishes could be ignored.

He paused. “The shareholders who are also on the Foundation’s board won’t make a fuss, either.. I can guarantee that.” 

“I’ve figured out that part out when you went ahead with the logistics of creating Six Swans,” Tiffany said. “How _did_ you manage that, by the way? Gotham as a whole might be blue, but those bastards are the same shade of red as Trump himself.”

“Dirty laundry,” Bruce said shortly. He held out her white stick.

She took it back, giving him another glare. But she tucked it back into the pack, so Bruce considered it a victory. “In other words: don’t ask?”

“Keep your hands clean,” Bruce said, spreading out his own. 

Huffing, Tiffany leaned back against her chair and looked at him from underneath her lids. “You know, sometimes I’m almost tempted to take a pay cut and work for a racist misogynistic bastard just so I don’t have to deal with you.”

Bruce barked a laugh before he could stop himself, shaking his head. “No, you’re not,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” Tiffany said, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. She crossed her arms. “So, when are the women going to be finally broken free?”

“Three days,” Bruce said. Clark’s writing deadline. 

“I’m guessing that that team of superheroes of yours will be doing the raiding?” Tiffany asked. When Bruce nodded, she made a noise of frustration. “Okay, I’m sick of calling them ‘the team of superheroes.’ Do they have a _name_?”

He should have expected this question. Except that he hadn’t, because he had been thinking of the team as _the team_ all the while. He rubbed his knuckles across his mouth. He had just with met them less than two hours ago; he should have _remembered_.

“That’s a no, isn’t it,” Tiffany said, voice wry.

“I’ll ask,” Bruce promised. “But I suspect that coming up with a name hasn’t been one of their priorities.”

“Too busy saving the world, got it,” she grinned at him. “So, did you manage to wrangle enough from them about their plans to give me a concrete date for the opening ceremony?”

There was _definitely_ something in the quirk of her eyebrows; an angle that told Bruce that she knew she was talking bullshit about Bruce getting plans _from_ the team. Bruce sipped at his water so he didn’t give into the urge to smile. Even though there were plenty of opposition when he made her his head of public relations three years ago – mostly due to her youth and also a few claims of nepotism – he knew he had made the right choice.

“The day after the women are to be brought in,” he said. “It has to be precisely then.”

She whistled under her breath. “Plenty of time for me to find ways to convince people that what they’re seeing is _truly_ a way to save the world,” she drawled. Pressing her hands against the table, she stood. “Anything else, boss?”

“Three things of that weight are enough on your plate already, don’t you think?” Bruce stood as well. “Oh, and you don’t have to keep this a secret from your dad.”

“Nothing in the company is ever a secret from my dad,” Tiffany told him dryly. “But noted, nonetheless. With thanks.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and waved her off. She laughed at him as she headed for the door. As it closed, he could hear her voice yelling something, most likely informing the other employees that the bosses’ meeting was over and they could use the rooftop again.

He headed for the railing, leaning his elbows against it as he looked out towards Gotham’s skyline. Now rather late in the evening, the city was draped in darkness streaked with grey. But that was fine; that was just how Gotham was.

The light had always been found elsewhere. 

***

“They don’t like keeping us all in the same place,” Ramona said. Sprawled out on the thin mattress covered by sheets spotted with yellowed and crusted stains, she took a long drag of her cigarette. Ash scattered down on the cotton. “I think it’s… it’s because the police raid often, and it’s easier to erase the evidence that way.”

Seated on the bed with his legs crossed, Clark nodded. “But you know where the other girls go.”

“Yeah,” Ramona nodded. “There aren’t many places that can be used, really, and we…” She hesitated for a moment. “Promise to not tell anyone?”

Clark paused. She wouldn’t believe him if he said that nothing she said would get out: the flickering light on the phone he had laid between them already belied that. For another, he wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t information that needed to be exchanged, no matter how much he would want to just visit.

“It’s not necessary information for people to know,” he said instead. Then, so that she wouldn’t think him to be deliberately obfuscating, “I promise not to tell.”

Her gaze rested on him for a long moment. The coiling white smoke from her cigarette couldn’t cut the light in her eyes. They were brighter now, Clark thought; steadier. Without that edge of hopeless and helpless desperation that had her clinging so tightly to him the last time he had visited.

Unfolding herself, she stepped off the bed. As Clark watched, she headed over to one of the floorboards near the door. Wood creaked as she pried the corner loose and withdrew a flash of yellow.

“We’ve been writing notes to each other and leaving them in the places we’re forced to stay in,” Ramona said. She stayed where she was, turning the note over and over in her hands. “They don’t let us out of the rooms we’re kept in, and most of us aren’t so busy that we always have someone in here. So, we explore the rooms, and find the notes someone else has left.” She paused. 

“It’s not useful. It’s not going to help us escape. But it’s…” She bent again, tucking the note back into the corner of the floorboard and nudging the wood back into place. “It makes us feel less alone.”

Clark thought of his team. Thought of himself, alone and unmoored for so long, and now with people he could call upon for help. People who were all now helping a cause that he had found, that meant so much to him.

“That’s useful,” he said softly. “To help you survive.”

For the briefest moments, her shoulders shook. Her head bowed, chin touching the hollow of her own throat. Clark could hear the quiet hitches of her breathing, the soft tremors in the air from her shaking hand, but he folded his hands in his lap and didn’t say a word. She had been changing, gathering steel wherever she could to gird her spine, and he would not call her out on it. Would not point out the vulnerabilities she carried that made such effort necessary.

Slowly, she stood and headed back to him. Her hand still shook when she lit up another her cigarette, but her eyes were dry as she met his gaze.

“Do you have a map?”

Clark slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out the piece of thick paper inside. He unfolded it slightly and brushed his fingers across the top, dislodging the bits and pieces that had been torn out when he ripped it from the sketchbook. Then he spread it out on the bed.

It was a map of the Suicide Slums. Drawn from the view of someone who was standing right on top of the entire area. One thing that Clark had learned about people was that they didn’t tend to look up. Not even in Metropolis.

Ramona ran her thumb down the pencilled lines, blinking hard. “I thought you would’ve gotten it from Google maps or something, but…” She swallowed. “When you said that someone is coming to bring us to a safe place…”

“Not him,” Clark said. He resisted the urge to push his glasses up his face, giving her a gentle smile instead. “But some of his friends, yes.”

“How do you… You told me that you’re a _reporter_ , so how…” She shook her head in clear disbelief, knuckles pressing against her mouth.

“I _am_ a reporter,” Clark said, lips twitching slightly despite myself. “I just work for the _Daily Planet_.” When she blinked at him, he laughed quietly. “The person who first discovered Superman and gave him his name? She works on the desk right beside mine.”

“Oh,” Ramona said.

“Writing an article about this can only go so far,” Clark continued, voice soft. “People would know, and maybe they’ll pressure the police and the mayor to do something. But… like you said, the police raids just made them,” he tipped his head to the side, motioning to the pimps and the johns who were roaming the streets, “change their tactics. That’s not going to help much, so… I found someone who could actually do something.” 

It wasn’t entirely the truth. But the spirit of it was there.

“Your source for Romania... To find my village and my family…” Ramona bit her lip, hand falling back to her side. “Was that him as well?”

Clark nodded.

“When you told me that we’ll be going to a place with people who will help us go home, or find us jobs here in America… Was that also him?” 

“Oh no,” Clark shook his head. “No, he can’t do that. But it’s…” What could Bruce Wayne be, to Superman? How would Superman describe Bruce Wayne if he was talking to a near-stranger, a reporter whose only connection to him was through Lois Lane?

Thinking of himself like that was starting to make his head hurt.

“An ally,” he decided on. “Someone he would call a friend. Someone with the power and influence that he doesn’t have.”

Ramona closed her eyes. Slowly, her legs drew up, and she hugged her knees to her chest and pressed her face into them. “They always told me that he can hear everything in the world,” she said, voice slightly muffled. “That he probably hears everything that’s going on, and he just… just chooses to do nothing. Because… Because I’m not— _we’re_ not… Not important enough.”

It was a good thing that she wasn’t looking at him, Clark thought distantly, because he couldn’t stop the flinch that went through his whole body even if he tried. It would’ve given him away.

“That’s not true,” he said. He swallowed hard, hand hovering in the air for a moment before he let it fall down onto the bed. 

“He knew about it,” he said. It wasn’t a lie: Superman _had_ known even before Clark did. Superman was the reason that Clark even started looking for someone he could have an interview with in the first place. He took a deep breath.

“It’s… Even he has things that he feels helpless to stop. That he doesn’t know how to help with.” He stared down at his own lap. “Even the most powerful person in the world can feel helpless. Even he can feel as if there was nothing he could do.”

“Really? He told you that?”

Clark couldn’t fault her for the twist on her lips, her raised eyebrow. He knew how the world looked at him, and he would never ask for her – for someone who had been flung around so much that her skin was bruised and her heart battered – to think from his perspective.

“No, he didn’t,” Clark shook his head. Superman would never say any of that to anyone; Superman was not supposed to have vulnerabilities. What hope could he provide, after all, if it was known that he had difficulty grasping onto hope himself? “But I’ve talked to him a few times, and I… I guessed.”

“If he cares, then why isn’t he coming?” she threw at him. “Why is it a _friend_?”

“Because…” Clark paused. _Because Diana and Barry are known to be friendlier and more approachable, and Bruce can scare the hell out of the pimps so they won’t think of returning back to crime when they’re released. Because Superman appearing in Gotham and Batman being seen out of his own city will make the team’s message of there being no boundaries in assuring that justice is done ring truer._

He couldn’t tell her any of that. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because this was his own conjecture. Because the team’s leader was Diana, not him. Because any statement about the team must be made in public first, instead of being given to her.

“I don’t know,” he said instead. “Maybe he thinks that it’ll be easier for you to trust them instead of him.” At the very least, none of them would have to deal with the resentment for not having acted sooner. For not having stopped this from happening at all.

Ramona shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, sounded decisive. “Even if someone else who gets me away from them, I still think that…” She hesitated for a moment, looking down to her hands. “You’re the one who saved me. Saved _us_.”

This time, Clark did manage to stifle the flinch. Barely. He swallowed. “I’m just doing the best I can, that’s all.”

That was true, Clark realised. For the first time since he had put on the uniform, the words didn’t taste like plastic in his mouth.

He took a deep breath, lifting his head and meeting her eyes. He tried for a smile, and was almost surprised at how easily it came.

“I’m just doing what’s right.”

***

The rasp of paper on paper rang out in the room, punctuated with quiet taps of bare feet on carpeted floor. When Matches looked up, Ileana had already reached the window, the green, backless dress she wore shimmering dark underneath the pale yellow streetlights streaming in. 

“So, what do you want us to do?”

“Put yourselves into one room and hide,” Matches said, placing the stick of wood between his teeth. “It’s gonna be ugly, girlie, and you don’t wanna get caught in the crossfire.” 

“What if they,” she jerked her chin towards the door, “figured out that we’re hiding? Use us as hostages? Will those _acquaintances_ ,” she drawled out the word, one eyebrow lifting, “of yours be able to stop us all from being killed?”

Hell of a smart girl, Matches thought, to have figured out what the rats’ plan would be once they realised that they were on a sinking ship. He lifted one leg, placing the heel of his shoe on the edge of the armchair he was seated on, leaning back and spreading out his hands.

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“Really?” she asked. “They just happen to read minds and are bulletproof somehow?”

“Well,” Matches said, “maybe not read minds, but…” He didn’t stop the grin from spreading over his lips. Leaning his chin against his knee, he lifted an eyebrow in her direction. “Hearing enough that he might as well be able to, and then fast enough to get anywhere in the building in the time to blink... and yeah, bulletproof.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh. “All part of the basic description of the guy.”

Ileana went still. Slowly, slowly, her eyes went wide and she realised just what Matches was insinuating. Her mouth opened, and then closed. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

It was the most unguarded Matches had ever seen her. His grin widened another inch.

“What?” she whispered.

“Told you that this is enough for me to risk my neck for,” he reminded her, leaning back further on his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “And you didn’t believe me.”

There was another moment of silence. Ileana dropped her head forward, pressing it against the glass. Her eyes stared out of the window to the street outside. A part of Matches wondered when the last time was that she had truly looked at the streets: not through a window, not through the glimpses she had while being bundled somewhere else, but as the symbols of freedom and the outside world as they were.

He brushed the thought aside. Too damned abstract for him.

“Will he be going after the other girls, too?” Ileana asked. “The ones who aren’t here.”

“Why?” Matches drawled. “You gonna like me better if I say yes?”

She didn’t laugh; didn’t smile, even. Not that Matches expected her to, really: she had stopped putting on that doll’s mask for him ever since his second visit. Which, he supposed, could be seen as a measure of trust. An honour, really. 

He plucked the matchstick out of his mouth and flicked it over to the ashtray. 

“No,” she said eventually. “Even if it means that you’ll be saving your life… no.” She tipped her head back to look him in the eyes. “I can fake it for you if that’s what it’ll take.” _Now_ she smiled. It was empty.

A trade for women that Matches was pretty sure she didn’t even know. Matches’s lips twisted, and he shook his head. “I ain’t here for your approval,” he said, waving a hand. “But don’t worry, this one’s just the first. We’re gonna clean out everything eventually.”

“Oh,” Ileana said. Her hand brushed through her hair, tugging one lock away from her face. She turned back to look out to the streets.

“What’s going to happen to us afterwards?” she asked quietly.

“From what I’ve heard, that depends,” Matches said. He took out his matchbox again, shaking it. There were only a few left, less than half, but he took one out and placed it between his teeth anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to need to replenish his stock after tonight. “You can go with the people who will help send you home, or you can go with those who will help you make a life here.” 

Turning around fully, Ileana cocked her head at him. “A choice,” she said, folding her arms. “You’re giving us a choice.”

“Ain’t me,” Matches pointed out. “I’m just the messenger.” There was still something stricken in her eyes; something that hinted towards how long it had been since she had been given a choice, any choice, about herself. He searched for a distraction.

“You’re probably not going to see me again after today,” he said, pushing on his knees as he stood. “Next thing you’re gonna hear ‘bout me is that I’m dead.”

Ileana tipped her head to the side. “Should I care?” 

Part of Matches knew that he should be angry. It would be fitting for him to be, because he was making all of this effort for her, for the women like her, and she wasn’t showing any gratitude for it. She wasn’t even showing any care or concern that he might die for what he was doing.

But he knew, too, that she wasn’t ever going to like him. Not with the way he had come in the first place, fucking her just to keep his cover. Not when all she had seen of his reasons for being here were the uses he had for her.

They were using each other. He wasn’t going to ask for gratitude even when it was mostly for her benefit.

“Nah,” Matches said, lips twitching up into a smile. “And don’t worry ‘bout it, girlie. No police will come knocking on your door asking ‘bout me.”

She nodded. The look was still in her eyes, but it had faded slightly. Matches supposed that he could only do that much. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the door. “So that’s goodbye then, girlie,” he drawled over his shoulder. “Hope you never see me again.”

Making a soft noise at the base of her throat, Ileana shook her head. “I save my hope for better things,” she said. Raising a hand, she was halfway to giving him a wave before she paused. “Just one last thing.”

“What is it?”

“Are you _really_ Matches Malone?”

Matches stopped. He had the excuse of the door being right in front of him, but it still took him at least a split second before he could turn around fully to face her. He took in the look in her eyes, the raised eyebrow, and laughed mentally to himself because, hell, he hoped the farmboy wasn’t listening in. He had enough ammunition about being right about Matches underestimating people already.

“You think a mother would name her son ‘Matches,’ girlie?” he drawled. “That’s just my street name.” When her expression didn’t change, he laughed. “The rest of it ain’t for you to know.” He tapped his temple with two fingers before pointing them in her direction. “Way above my pay grade to tell you.”

A misleading hint. A red herring. Better for her to suspect that Matches Malone was actually some kind of FBI spy than the truth. Ileana might not have mentioned the Bat, but that was no guarantee that she didn’t know of him. That she didn’t suspect that Malone was connected to him in some way.

Throwing a smirk over his shoulder, he stepped out the door. The last glimpse he had of her as he closed the door was her leaning against the windowsill, creases between her brows and her eyes fixed upon his back.

He headed down the stairs. This time, he didn’t bother to talk to the woman at the counter, simply tossing the bills required over. While he waited for her to count, he wondered if Ileana would warn her as well. If Ileana would understand that a woman like this was only in her position because it was the only way she could gain some kind of control over her own life. That choices were as out of reach for the madam standing at the counter as the whores inside the rooms. 

Probably, Matches decided, closing the brothel’s door behind him and heading for the second-hand Mercedes. The only question was if Ileana would think those reasons were good enough for the woman’s life to be saved.

Something to warn Clark about. 

***

> _Unknown number:_ Both Mannheim and Sionis will be coming from the North in unmarked black vans. Mercedes-Benz Vito, twelve-seater variant. Don’t bother trying to find out which van belongs to who.  
>  _You:_ Is this B?  
>  _You:_ Why is Mannheim coming from the north? Metropolis is in the west. Won’t it be easier for him to cross the river via the bridge?  
>  _Unknown number:_ Sionis has people at the bridge; it’s one of his closest-guarded territories. Mannheim moved his men into Gotham across the river at Endsbury Park in the morning.  
>  _Unknown number:_ Endsbury is uptown, btw.  
>  _You:_ Your faith in my knowledge of Gotham geography is very reassuring. And accurate.  
>  _You_ : Anyway, what’s the plan?  
>  _Unknown number_ : Get the team to gather on the discus buoy approximately forty-five degrees from the southmost point of the docks. It’ll be able to bear your weights. From there, listen out for the signal and dive straight into the fray then.  
>  _Unknown number:_ Who’s coming, btw?  
>  _You:_ B, me, C, and F.  
>  _You:_ What signal?  
>  _Unknown number:_ You’ll figure it out.  
>  _Unknown number:_ Oh good, I can contact them directly. Only [water emoji] isn’t recorded. Does he even have a phone?  
>  _You:_ Phones don’t do well in water.  
>  _You:_ Why is he [water emoji]? He should be ‘A,’ right?  
>  _Unknown number:_ A is taken. AA just makes him sound like a battery. Maybe instead of [water emoji] his codename should be H2O.  
>  _You:_ I don’t think he would be very pleased with that.  
>  _Unknown number:_ Heh.

_Calling… unknown number…_  


Call rejected.

> _Unknown number:_ Don’t bother.  
>  _Unknown number:_ I’ll throw you a bone, S: not him, not him, and not him. Just doing the second ‘him’ a favour because he’s too busy with his actual job to run errands for ‘him’ number one. I’m better at this anyway.  
>  _You:_ Oh. Have I met you?  
>  _Unknown number:_ Eventually.  
>  _You:_ Are all of you this cryptic?

_Error: number not found. Message returned to sender_.

Frowning to himself, Clark tucked his phone back into one of the pockets he had convinced to cape to grow. After the cloth had helpfully stitched itself over it to stop it from falling out, he turned to Victor. “Did you manage to try to track down who it was?” he asked. 

It was… strange. After all that Bruce had said, after his explicit _promise_ to keep the team informed… it didn’t seem like him to go and get someone no one knew to send them these messages. It didn’t fit what he had said that now they were all here, and none of them had more than the barebone details of this plan that Bruce had literally asked them for help with.

Victor turned from where he was staring out towards the endlessly dark ocean. His smirk was visible even under the dim light of the stars streaming through the heavy and thick Gotham clouds. “What makes you think I tried?”

“I’ll be really surprised if you didn’t,” Clark shrugged in response. “Did you find anything?”

“Nope,” Victor shrugged. “Whoever it is, they’re good enough to lock even me out. Not even coaxing the connection got me anything.” As he flexed his one mechanical hand, a ghost of a smile curved up his lips. “Been a while since I’ve had a digital door slam in my face like that.”

Seated on top of the buoy, Barry whistled soft and low. “So, we know nothing?”

“Except that they know B,” Clark said. “They’re close enough to and trusted by him enough to know his…” No real names on the field, he remembered. “His, uh, security advisor.”

“How do you know _that_?” Barry asked, cocking his head.

“Because they know A,” Clark replied. “Not the A we know,” he said, motioning towards the ocean while making a vague swimming motion with his other hand. “That one can’t be A, because A is already B’s security advisor.” He paused. “This is sounding like a very badly-written high school math problem.”

“He’s going to be so pissed when he realises that he’s being referred to as,” Barry replicated Clark’s swimming gesture, laughing with his head thrown back. 

“Think it’ll be better or worse if we tell him that he’s now a water emoji?” Victor asked. When Clark raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “The connection threw your text messages at me when it couldn’t give me the location of our mysterious messenger,” he said as a way of explanation. “It was really sad and trying to help.”

“Does the Internet have feelings?” Barry piped up before Clark could say a word. “Is it sad that we use it so much for bad porn?” After a moment, his eyes darted to Clark and widened to a comically large size. “Uh, I mean…”

“Yes, Barry,” Clark said, his lips twitching despite himself. “I know exactly what porn is.”

Barry opened his mouth, clearly about to either protest _of course I know that_ or _don’t say that word again, oh my god_ , but Clark held up his hand and shook his head. The ear he had trained on the docks were now picking up footsteps and voices. And there was just one in particular…

“ _C’mon now, Mister Sionis,_ ” the thick New Jersey accent drawled. “ _You really think I’d sell you out like that? That I’d do that and follow you out here anyway?_ ”

“ _How can I be sure, Malone?_ ” This voice was less deep, but harsher-edged somehow, every consonant bitten-off. “ _You’re always playing your own games._ ” 

One _click_. Then a whole series of them. Safeties being drawn back. Clark narrowed his eyes, turning his head. But it was far too dark at the docks for him to see anything. He curled his fingers inwards, beckoning for Barry and Victor to come in closer with him.

“Someone is going to get shot,” he said. Matches Malone needed to disappear before Clark Kent’s article could get out, Clark knew, but he wasn’t going to let Bruce be shot while he was standing right there. “The moment I hear the trigger, I’m going to rush over. That’s not part of the plan, I think.”

“Got it,” Barry whispered, giving him a thumbs-up. “So, what are we supposed to do here?”

“ _What I’m curious about_ ,” Mannheim was saying, _“is if there’s even a shipment coming in the first place._ ”

“Wait for me to come back,” Clark said. He would elaborate further – explain, perhaps – but there was no time. He could already here the creak of finger-joints bending, the electric impulses of nerves firing. He shifted into super-speed and darted across the strip of ocean that separated him from the docks.

Matches Malone was standing at the very edge, the heel of one shoe caught against the side of a wooden plank. His hands were held up in the universal gesture of surrender, his arms bunching up the cloth of his khaki jacket. That, and the oversized shoulder-pads, made him look smaller, almost scared. The hint of his wide eyes from behind those thick-rimmed sunglasses added to the impression.

Clark had never seen Bruce in this disguise before. He had heard him plenty – a few sentences here and there whenever he was distracted enough to focus on Bruce’s voice again – but never properly _seen_ him. He wished that he had the time to appreciate every aspect of this disguise that Bruce had obviously put so much thought into.

Flints struck inside the barrels of two guns. Sionis and Mannheim, Clark noted distantly. He watched the bullets as they sped towards Bruce, and then he _grabbed_ the man by the shoulders, moving him out of the way in the split second that it would take for the bullets to hit him. Then, faster than human eyes could notice, he put Bruce right back where he was, except with his posture slightly tilted backwards. 

Zipping out of the way, he watched from the corner of his eye as Matches Malone curled inwards, both hands slapping at spots on his chest as he fell backwards into the water. Then, making use of the splash that was already there, Clark dived down and grabbed Bruce again – this time by the armpits – and pulled him backwards, kicking at the water until he could feel the ripples caused by the buoy brush his arms. He dragged them both above the surface.

“You know,” Bruce said, remarkably calm even though Matches’s sunglasses were askew and the moustache was half-hanging off his upper lip. “I _did_ have a bulletproof vest on.”

“Not sorry,” Clark said.

“Why am I not surprised,” Bruce rolled as his eyes. As Clark grinned at him, he sighed and pulled the sunglasses and moustache off, flicking the former in the direction of the docks. Clark nodded, taking the message: as Bruce dropped both into the water, Clark kicked lightly at the sunglasses, controlling his strength such that they careened towards the docks without breaking.

“Now bring me over there,” Bruce nudged his head towards the southwest, further into the ocean than the buoy. Clark cocked his head, listening for a moment… and blinked, because that was the sound of a motor. A _speedboat’s_ motor. 

“There’s actually a shipment?” Clark blinked.

“Of my change of clothes,” Bruce said. “And a few more things.” When Clark continued staring at him, awaiting a proper explanation, Bruce dragged a hand through his wet hair. “The GCPD needs _some_ reasons to hold these men in jail without the possibility of bail until the raids occur.”

“Oh,” Clark said. “Hold on.”

Instead of keeping still like Clark expected, Bruce turned around. Then Clark’s eyes were going wide and his throat drying up, because Bruce put his arms around his neck and his _legs_ were encircling Clark’s waist, and that was— he was— “Uh,” Clark said intelligently.

“Move already,” Bruce said. Clark tried to not think too much about another situation where they could be in this position with Bruce saying those precise words. He nodded instead, carefully putting his arms on Bruce’s _shoulders_ as he floated off the water and flew towards the direction of the whirring motor.

Bruce detangled himself from him the moment Clark’s feet touched the ground. “There’s no Kryptonite in here, he said, carding his hand again through wet hair and flicking droplets of seawater onto the floor of the motorboat. “But there _is_ something that looks enough like it that Sionis and Mannheim won’t be able to tell the difference. We’ll have to wait until they start shooting at each other before joining in. Several counts of attempted murder captured on camera should be enough to keep them in jail for a while.” He paused. 

“I thought that Dick told you all of this,” he said, looking over his shoulder. Clark wondered, for a moment, about the rule about not using names while out on the field. Was it even the rule?

Anyway— he shook his head. “It wasn’t Dick who contacted us,” he said. “It’s… someone I’m sure you know. Someone who is a friend of his, who is doing him a favour?” He shrugged. “They weren’t very informative, to be honest.”

There was a moment in which Bruce looked at Clark as if he had started speaking Kryptonian instead of English. Then he slapped his hand over his face and muttered something so soft and strangled by his growl that even Clark’s hearing couldn’t catch it.

“ _Goddamnit_ ,” he said, letting the hand fall back to his side. “It’s a fucking _conspiracy_ , I swear.”

“Uh…” Clark trailed off.

“I should’ve told you myself,” Bruce said. “I wanted to inform all of you myself. But the window of time I had planned for me to tell you was taken away from me by a _stupid_ reason—” 

“Bruce—” Clark tried.

“Listen,” Bruce turned around sharply enough that his half-off jacket flared out around him, scattering water everywhere. “I _do_ mean it about trying to keep all of you in the loop. I’m not deliberately keeping secrets, and I definitely didn’t plan for you to walk into this practically blind—” 

It would be too rude for him to slap a hand over Bruce’s mouth to stop him from spiralling, Clark realised, so he took a gentler approach instead: he cupped both hands over Bruce’s jaw, tilting his face towards Clark’s. When Bruce stopped speaking, Clark looked into those hazel eyes and took a breath.

“It’s alright,” Clark said. Another inhale so he could swallow back the _please chill_ because he didn’t think it would be appreciated. “What happened to that window of time?”

Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it. When he looked away, Clark let go of him. Then Bruce said, in a voice too soft to be picked up by human ears: 

“I fucking fell asleep.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“Don’t,” Bruce gritted out, “make me repeat it. I know you heard.”

“Okay,” Clark said, holding up his hands. _Don’t laugh_ , he told himself. _Don’t laugh_. “You… fell asleep.”

“I fell asleep because I was waiting for the programme charting the bratva’s route to finish,” Bruce said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I should’ve noticed that it was taking longer than usual, which means that _someone_ was interfering with the Cave’s systems.” He snarled under his breath. “When I woke up, Alfred said that he’d asked Dick to tell all of you about tonight on my behalf. Which he did instead of waking me up.”

“And Alfred told Dick whatever he could…” Clark said slowly, “and then Dick relayed the same information to our mysterious messenger… and that information is flawed because not even Alfred knows exactly what is going to happen tonight?” Clark took a moment to rub his knuckles over his lips. “Bruce. The issue here _isn’t_ that you fell asleep. You know that, right?”

He took a step forward. “You also know that it’s not a bad thing for Alfred to have had let you sleep, right?” Cautiously, he raised a hand, tracing the air above the heavy lines at the sides of Bruce’s eyes. “You look _exhausted_.”

“Are you,” Bruce said, sounding incredulous, “are _you_ now lecturing _me_ about trying to do everything alone?”

“Yeah,” Clark nodded, pasting on as wide a grin as he could manage. “It’s like how a recovered alcoholic goes to those AA meetings to help those who are still in the same state he had been. A kind of “if I can do it, so can you!” kind of thing.”

“There are so many things wrong with what you just said that I don’t know how to start,” Bruce said, voice very dry.

“Don’t start?” Clark suggested. “We… still kind of have a gang war to stop?”

He could practically see the _you’re the one distracting me_ hovering at the edge of Bruce’s lips, but Bruce evidently thought that it was a waste of breath, because he turned away and ducked into the cabin of the boat. Clark watched him and decided that he was probably going to do something stupid and inappropriate if he stayed while Bruce changed into Batman, and so he threw, “I’m heading back to the buoy,” over his shoulder and floated over.

“Hi,” Barry said. “Welcome back.” Beside him, Victor gave a wave. 

Clark took one look at them. They were seated on top of the battery, shoulders brushing as their backs leaned against the solar panels. “Bored?” he guessed.

“Not really,” Victor said. “We’ve both figured out that stuff like this involves a lot of waiting.”

“Or, like, running in literal circles,” Barry added. “I ran a lot of those around Italy.” He flashed a smile up at Clark. “We’ve been guessing at what’s going to happen next while watching the docks. Or, well, Victor’s watching the docks and narrating to me what’s happening now, and I’m guessing what goes on next.”

“He’s really bad at it,” Victor said. Clark blamed the low lighting for not realising that Victor had a pair of lenses right over his eyes. Like binoculars, he guessed. Except better because the lenses were made from the mechanical parts of his body. 

“Anyway,” Barry continued, clearly ignoring Victor. “They’re arguing right now. We figured out that they’re probably fighting over the shipment of whatever stuff it was that Bruce told them would be coming. The stuff that would kill us.”

“A bunch of nanites,” Bruce’s voice said. Victor slapped a hand over Barry’s mouth just in time to silence his yell of surprise as the Gotham Bat rose out of the water like some kind of kraken. Clark, who had heard him moving in the water, swallowed back a laugh. 

“Jesus Christ,” Barry said. “Don’t _do_ that!”

Bruce ignored him. “Kept in capsule form,” he continued, “but small enough to be airborne. Meant to be inhaled, at which point they would attach to the sensory parts of the brain.” He shook his cape out, dislodging water right onto Clark’s head. Clark squinted up at him, trying to glare through the sudden spray.

“They can be customised to be used on any of us. Even me.” He paused. “Pretty ingenious, really.”

“There is this comic on the Internet,” Victor said, sounding contemplative. “About some scientist who figured out how to rewrite DNA. He could’ve like, cured genetic diseases. Prevent cancer. But instead he used it to turn people into dinosaurs.” 

Then he probably realised that the other three men on the buoy were staring at him in utter incomprehension, because he scratched the back of his neck.

“Look, you can do so much _good_ with those nanites,” he sighed. “If it’s possible for them to specifically target one part of the body, you can literally use them to deliver chemicals to specific cells. Or, hell, to explode those cells by themselves.” He shook his hands in the air. “Cure cancer? Instead of like, trying to kill us?”

“Did you just jazz hands,” Barry asked, sounding awed.

Slowly, Bruce picked up his cape. Shook it out over Barry’s face. “ _Focus_ ,” he hissed. Then he turned to Victor. “Keep that thought. I have the nanites with me, so we’ll see if they can be reprogrammed. Or find the manufacturer.” He turned to face Clark. “What’s happening over there?”

Clark cocked his head to the side, a half-conscious action to show that he was listening to something further away. “The boat has reached them,” he said. “And they’re now arguing over who gets to go in and check.” There were also others trying to tell Mannheim and Sionis that this could be a trap, but that wasn’t important. Not until those two actually started paying attention.

“Boat?” Victor asked.

“You didn’t _tell_ them what’s happening?” Bruce asked, sounding frustrated.

“I was going to right before you pulled the kraken on us,” Clark pointed out. “Anyway,” he turned back to Victor and Barry, “there’s a boat that – I’m guessing here – is on autopilot or remote-controlled. It has fake Kryptonite on it. We have to wait for Mannheim and Sionis to find the fake Kryptonite and start shooting at each other.”

“Oh,” Barry said. He shifted slightly, leaning against the solar panel on another spot, before drawing his legs up and linking his hands together on top of his knees. “You know, I keep thinking that I should run and get donuts and coffee.”

“Because police on stakeouts always have donuts and coffee?” Victor asked, sounding simultaneously irritated and rather fond. Clark kept his eyebrow in its usual position with some effort.

“Yeah,” Barry said, shrugging. “If you switch out this shaky buoy for a car, then it’ll exactly be like a stakeout in the movies.” He paused. “Okay, we need to be on the ground, too, because if we’re in a car over the ocean, we’re all going to drown.” Another pause. “Except maybe Clark over here.”

“Four minutes,” Bruce interrupted. There were lenses over his cowl, too, and he was facing the docks. “Maybe less. Get ready.”

“Oh, thank god,” Barry muttered as he swung up to his feet. “I was starting to run out of possible conversational topics.”

“Silence exists and is a possibility,” Victor stated, taking a couple more seconds to stand up as well. “Just saying.”

“Get in there, take their guns, make the guns useless. Don’t get shot, don’t get caught in ricochets,” Bruce reeled off instructions. “Three minutes.” 

Taking a single step closer to Bruce, Clark whispered, “You need a lift? Also, you’re not bulletproof.”

“No,” Bruce gave him a minute shake of his head. “And I know. I have a different role to play here.” He raised his voice. “Two minutes.”

Clark closed his eyes. Breathed out. “You know,” he said, keeping his voice as casual as he could make it. “You’re not exactly good at this _telling people_ thing. We’re not your soldiers to fall into line.” Catching Bruce’s eyes through the lenses of the cowl, he shook his head. “I know you’re trying. Not gonna push it now.”

Bruce swallowed. “Thirty seconds,” he said.

Turning back towards the docks, Clark readied himself. He scanned the crowds in front of him. At least seventy men – forty or so by Sionis’s side, thirty by Mannheim’s. Definitely not all of the subordinates under their command, to say the least. Just the ones who could be trusted.

No gun was out: they had likely been put away once Matches Malone had disappeared into the water. But Clark trusted Bruce to know what was going on, so he took in the faces, picking out those who looked the most trigger-happy. Those who looked most likely to kill.

Beside him, Barry blew on his hands.

“Behind Sionis,” Bruce said.

A _crack_ of a gunshot.

Barry and he left Victor behind, already speeding across the water; Barry heading for the gunman, Clark for the bullet. As the world exploded around them in slow-motion chaos of shouts and screams and drawn guns, Clark tapped the bullet very, very gently, diverting it away from its path towards Sionis’s heart. He heard Mannheim _shriek_ – the hollow slow-motion voice tremulous and strangely deep – as the bullet found its new target, the sound of it driving through muscle and into bone sickening. 

But actual crimes were necessary for these men to remain behind bars. So, Clark took a breath and pushed the sound out of his mind, focusing instead on grabbing guns out of hands, twisting them until they were useless before dropping them on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Barry, nothing more than a red blur to human sight as he slapped and smacked guns out of hands, switching the safeties on and throwing them to Victor, who was following him the best he could. Victor took those guns and crushed the barrels, rendering them unusable.

They worked well as a team, Clark thought briefly, and then stopped being distracted because he nearly used too much force on one man’s jaw as he knocked him down.

For something they had been waiting nearly two hours for, it was over in less than a minute. Sionis was still yelling as Clark slowed to a stop. Men were groaning around them. They needed to be restrained, Clark thought. They might have taken the guns, but these were organised crime members; they would most likely have knives. 

Clark was in the midst of untwisting one particular gun and trying to figure out how to stretch the metal, without having to melt it, when the screaming started.

“The Bat! It’s the Bat!” He turned.

Bruce was standing on top of the speedboat, nothing more than liquid shadow with stark white gleams in the place of eyes. As he landed on the docks proper, the wooden boards creaked beneath his weight. His steps were steady, rhythmic _thumps_ that grew louder as the men’s eyes widened and their voices died as their throats closed in fear.

Slowly, inexorably, he headed towards Sionis. The man snarled at him, but it was an empty gesture because he was already shaking. As Clark – and Barry, and Victor – watched, Bruce reached down. He took hold of Sionis’s collar and turned, his cape sweeping outwards as he dragged Sionis towards the edge of the water.

“Fuck you,” Sionis said, his voice very loud in the stillness of the air as he struggled against Bruce’s grip, as he tried to pull away from the hooks that Bruce was attaching to the lapels of his suit. “What the fuck are you— _fuck you_!” 

Sionis’s body was hanging half off the edge of the dock, near the same spot where Matches Malone had fallen over. Bruce lifted a foot and slammed it down on top of Sionis’s head. Sionis sputtered as his head sank beneath the water. Somehow, Bruce kept his balance, not budging an inch even as Sionis’s hand gripped at his ankle, his shin, trying to throw him off.  
_  
_ Bruce eventually lifted his foot. His grip on the wires attached to those hooks tightened, and he pulled. Sionis’s head surfaced, and he was choking, coughing up seawater and trying to breathe at the same time. Bruce slammed his foot down on the small of his back this time, keeping him in place as he _pulled_ at those wires, making Sionis arch backwards.

“Who are your suppliers?” Bruce growled. “Who are your sellers?”

“Like _hell_ I’ll tell you,” Sionis snarled. Bruce placed his weight more firmly on the small of his back and use the other foot and kick him right in the face.

Police sirens screamed into the night. Bruce must have called the GCPD in, he thought distantly. His eyes were fixed on Bruce, and he… He remembered that voice. No surprise there, it was Bruce’s voice, so…

 _There’s a new kind of mean in him_ , Clark heard in his head, echoes from a time that should be long ago but was very close now. _He’s angry. And he’s hunting_.

Bruce standing beside him, darkly-clothed even under the heat of the Kansan sun. _I bought the bank_ , he said, and there was this strangely – he thought it was strange, then – awkward twist to his lips. Bruce standing in front of him, eyes turned away from Clark, towards a case. _I wasn’t eight when he died, either_. Bruce just now, a hand over his face and admitting in a voice he knew Clark could hear: _I fucking fell asleep_.

“You don’t scare me anymore, _Bat_ ,” Sionis was spitting out. “How does it feel, huh? You can do whatever you like, but it won’t mean _shit_.” 

Clark took one step forward. Then another. He dropped the mangled gun from his hand. It clattered to the ground, loud enough to make Sionis freeze, his eyes darting towards him. Bruce’s eyes were on him, too, and Clark jerked his head to the side. The moment Bruce lifted his foot, Clark reached down. He plucked the hooks away from Sionis’s lapels.

“Superman,” Sionis gasped out. “I knew you would—” Then he couldn’t speak anymore, because Clark had him by the throat and was lifting him up.  
_  
His name is Roman Sionis, Gotham’s version of Mannheim, except much better established. I need you to put the fear of God into him_ , Bruce had asked Clark, back in March. _I caught Sionis’s shipment back in March_ ,Bruce had said just hours ago.

The lingering heat from the bullet that Clark had diverted enough to not kill Mannheim, but not enough to leave him unharmed. The thrum of Bruce’s own pulse beneath Clark’s fingertips as he had held Bruce up into the air, back when he was just revived.

Clark flexed his fingers, feeling the soft cartilage of Sionis’s throat beneath his hand. Then he let go entirely. Sionis dropped down to the wooden floorboards, gasping and clawing at his throat. 

There were reasons for Bruce’s actions, Clark realised. Reasons for that rage. That anger. That cruelty. Reasons better than Clark’s own rage when he came back from the dead. Reasons that Clark _understood_ , no matter how much he didn’t want to.

“Superman,” Bruce said. The voice was the Bat’s, roughened by the voice modulator, but the tone underneath… that was all Bruce. That was Bruce saying, _Clark_. That was Bruce laying open all of his previous secrets, saying, _This is why I don’t want you to know_.

Clark leaned down. He gripped Sionis’s chin and lifted it up. “If you’re not afraid of the Bat,” he said, voice very soft. “Are you afraid of me?”

“I—” Sionis started.

Slowly, Clark moved his hand from Sionis’s chin downwards. He moved past the neck to place his thumb against the jut of a collarbone. Then he applied some pressure. “Are you,” he said, slower this time, “afraid of me?”

“Luthor’s contacts!” Sionis blurted out suddenly. “That’s where I got it from!”

“Who gave them to you?” Clark asked.

“It was a woman,” Sionis babbled. “Black, around medium height. The name she gave me was fake – I checked it out – but she said she works for an organisation that has a lot of money to spare—” 

“ARGUS,” Bruce murmured from behind him. “Amanda Waller. Task Force X.”

Nothing that Clark could recognise, but if Bruce did, then they had something to go on with.

“Where?”

“The capsules were manufactured in Hong Kong,” Sionis said, shaking now. His eyes were very wide. “The Kryptonite was from… from the Indian Ocean. That’s all I know. That’s all, I swear.”

Clark nodded. He kept his thumb where it was, turning his head. “Batman, will you please?”

Bruce looked at him. He had withdrawn the lenses, but Clark refused to meet his eyes. Eventually, Bruce nodded, walking away to pick up that mangled gun. When he handed it to Clark, Clark held it in one hand, using his heat vision to melt the metal. Beneath him, he could smell the rising stench of piss. It was enough for him to lift his thumb so he could use both hands to stretch the metal out into a single long piece. Then he blew on it until it hardened again.

“Stand up, Mister Sionis,” Clark said. When Sionis did, Clark stepped behind him. He placed the metal against Sionis’s wrists and _bent_ it until it formed a loop that locked them in. 

Makeshift handcuffs, Clark thought, and wondered why his head was spinning so badly.

White and blue cars were stopping around them, and police officers were spilling out to cuff the men who were lying on the ground. One particular officer – grey-haired, not in uniform but in a ragged suit with a black coat draped on top – came towards them. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw Bruce shake his head. The man stopped. Then he nodded, turning away.

Clark stood where he was, watching through a slowly-encroaching haze while vans drove up and criminals were being shoved up into them. His heart was pounding very loudly in his ears. He looked at his hands for a long moment. They were steady. 

“Flash, Cyborg,” Clark could hear Bruce say. “We’ll debrief later. Go home. Get some sleep.”

Barry and Victor were saying something, but Clark couldn’t hear them. He should probably move from where he was. He should… He looked at his hands again. There was nothing there. Sionis hadn’t bled at all, so surely there were no reasons for him to search for signs of red. There were no…

Hum. A mechanical hum. Victor and Barry were gone. The sound was coming from Bruce, who was letting his arm drop back to his side. His eyes were on Clark. His hand was coming towards Clark, dark-gauntleted. Clark stared at it, and didn’t move away when Bruce closed his fingers around his arm.

“Come with me,” Bruce said very quietly. He had switched off the voice modulator. “Come on. Come with me.” 

Clark nodded. He allowed Bruce to lead him down the docks. Or was it up? He couldn’t tell. Everything was edged in this strange white haze that wouldn’t go away no matter how much Clark blinked. But he could tell that the scenery was changing, shifting. The boat had disappeared. The buoy had disappeared, too.

They stopped. It wasn’t wood beneath his feet anymore. It was concrete. Grey. Clark stared at it. His boots were dark red underneath the dim light. They looked like— he stumbled. Bruce held onto him, an arm around his shoulders. He smelled of machine oil and seawater. Water. There was water underneath his gaze, now. Clark was on his knees.

“Come on,” Bruce said. He had one arm across Clark’s chest, the other rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. “Let it go. Do what you need to.”

What did he need to do? What did he… Clark lurched forward before he knew what he was doing, scrabbling at Bruce, gripping tightly to his arm, his cape, as he leaned forward and _retched_.

“That’s it,” Bruce said. His voice was oddly soothing. His hand was now running down Clark’s spine. “That’s it. Keep going. Get it out.”

Could Kryptonians throw up on Earth? Clark remembered how sick he had felt when under the influence of the Kryptonite. The Kryptonite. Bruce used it on him. Bruce right now beside him, holding him. His head was spinning. 

He retched again, and again. Nothing came up because he hadn’t eaten for days because he didn’t need to, because he had to find some way to pay for visits to Ramona. But there was this sour taste at the back of his mouth and he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t, his throat was closing up and he didn’t need to breathe but he was still hyperventilating and he couldn’t _stop_ —

“Focus on the sound of my heart,” Bruce told him. “Focus on it, Clark. That’s it. Focus on it.”

Clark closed his eyes and obeyed. Bruce’s heartbeat was steady. _Ta-thump, ta-thump, ta-thump_. He felt his own breathing ease. He turned his head and buried his face into Bruce’s neck, feeling the hitch in his breath. But Bruce’s heart was still steady. _Ta-thump, ta-thump_. Clark turned his head, pressing his nose into Bruce’s hair. 

Machine oil and metal from the suit. _Ta-thump._ Some kind of bergamot from Matches Malone’s aftershave. _Ta-thump._ Bruce Wayne’s cologne of sandalwood and a hint of musk. _Ta-thump._ Salt overlaying all of it, from the sea. _Ta-thump._ Clark breathed in deeper, searching. Bruce’s own scent, darker than all of it. _Ta-thump._ Like distilled shadow, somehow. His hand clenched onto the thick, heavy cape.

The haze was retreating. When Clark opened his eyes, Bruce was looking at him. Bruce with the cowl off, his brows furrowed with worry. Clark reached up to touch them. Brushed his fingers lightly over the lines at the corners of his eyes.

“It’s not fair,” he said softly.

Bruce blinked. He swallowed. “What?”

“You do this all the time,” Clark said. He didn’t mean the comfort, but what came… came before Clark’s attempt. “Why is it that you can do it when I can’t?”

Closing his eyes, Bruce sighed. He didn’t stop Clark when Clark leaned forward to touch their foreheads together. “Because,” Bruce said softly, “I don’t have to be careful to not kill someone.” His fingers brushed Clark’s temple lightly. “Because in order to kill someone, I actually have to make an effort.”

Despite himself, Clark shuddered. He clutched tightly onto Bruce’s arms. The Kevlar and leather and metal plates squeaked beneath his grasp. But Bruce didn’t ask him to let go.

“Because,” Bruce continued, “I’m not a good person. Because I’m always angry, always tired, and I’ve been fighting against a brick wall for so long that it’s a relief to have someone to take it out against.”

Clark started to shake his head, but Bruce huffed out a breath against his lips. Clark bit on his tongue so he wouldn’t protest.

“Because, Clark,” Bruce said, and his eyes were very dark, “it’s my choice. Because I chose to make people afraid of me, and every time that they are, it’s a validation of my choice. But you…” Leather brushed over the curve of Clark’s cheek. “Every time someone is afraid, it’s something you don’t want.”

“But it worked,” Clark said. “We got the information we needed.”

“Not like this,” Bruce shook his head. “Not when it tears you apart.” The ghost of a smile on his lips. “The method is too inefficient.”

Without even meaning to, Clark laughed. Nothing more than a quiet huff, but it was something. It made his throat feel less raw. Made his chest feel less like it had been pried open. 

“I have a guestroom at the lake house,” Bruce said. “Sleep there. Call in sick tomorrow so you can listen to me yell ineffectually at Dick through the phone. Then get disapproving glances from Alfred for yelling.” His lips twitched up a little bit. “Then you probably get to see me get further insulted by lines of text from the computer at the Cave.”

Even in the shivery state that his mind was in, Clark knew what Bruce’s words meant. Knew that Bruce was inviting him into his home. Not just his house, but his _home_. Let him be a part of his interactions with the people he fully allowed into his life, even if only as a spectator. It was… He…

He wanted to help Bruce. That was why he had done that to Sionis. He had just… wanted to help. Because Bruce looked so tired. Because Lois had said, so long ago, that Clark looked as if he was sharing the burden, but Bruce was still holding onto all of his own worries by himself. And now with the weight of Clark’s, too.

“I’ll stay, but… Promise that you’ll tell me everything you’re doing in the morning,” Clark murmured. “Please.”

“Is that your condition for staying?” Bruce asked.

“No,” Clark said. “I’ll stay even if you don’t promise. But I want you to.” He brushed his thumb lightly over the lines at the side of Bruce’s eye. “Let me help.”

“You’re asking a lot from me,” Bruce pointed out.

“Yeah,” Clark said. He tried for a poke at Bruce’s chest, right at the bat symbol. “You’re asking a lot from me right now by asking me to come into your house… and not letting me help.” His mouth still felt a bit strange, but the lopsided smile he gave Bruce felt alright enough. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Bruce closed his eyes. Sighed. But his hand had moved up to the nape of Clark’s neck, tugging lightly on the small hairs there. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I promise. It’s…” He sighed. “It’s a lot.”

“Mm,” Clark said. He turned his head, and pressed his lips gently, gently against the grey hair at Bruce’s temple. 

“I figured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12.5k words. _Fuck._  
>  **  
> **  
> Tiffany Fox is from the comics and is Lucius Fox’s oldest child. Given that Bruce is already in his forties, it’s not inconceivable for Lucius to be preparing for retirement with his eldest child taking over. Also, I need more women in this fic, and Bruce interacting with his employees. (My favourite part of BvS is really the first section with Bruce being a Good Dad and Good Boss.)
> 
> This last two chapters took place over the course of twenty-four hours. Bruce is a very, _very_ busy man as the plot rolls on faster because most of the plot actually hinges on _his_ actions. He’s way too busy for any human being to deal with, actually, hence… uh. /stares at the scene. Also, I think it’s pretty obvious to anyone with some knowledge of DCU as a whole who our mysterious messenger is. Two hints: It’s a she, and she has connections with the GCPD. :>
> 
> Anyway, [this is the comic](https://i.imgur.com/lmeZ6SDr.jpg?2) that Victor mentioned, about the scientist rewriting DNA to turn people into dinosaurs instead of, you know, doing anything to help humanity.
> 
> /THROWS HANDS UP INTO AIR. I don’t even know what it is about Clark and Bruce anymore.


	11. installing (the locks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark talks to his mother. Matches Malone pays a visit to Clark Kent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Implied heartbreak in the first scene. Explicit sex that is consensual but very fucked up – and with added identity porn – in the second scene.

_Oh,_ Clark thought to himself as he stared down at the lake house, watching as the glass slowly darken from clear transparent to opaque black as the dawn’s rays hit it. _That’s why he doesn’t get sunburns._ He nodded to himself before he turned around and took off into the sky.

As he flew through the flyover states towards Kansas – taking care to keep above the level that airplanes used, because the last thing he wanted was for people to accidentally break windows and hurt themselves and others because they were too excited about seeing him – he thought about the explanations he could give Bruce for his rejection of his invitation.

Okay, so, Clark didn’t exactly _refuse_. He didn’t exactly _leave_. He followed Bruce back to the lake house, stayed the night – the bed in the guestroom was really comfortable and he nearly had a thought about stealing the pillow – but everything else… The things that Bruce actually talked about, everything he had _meant_ when he had invited Clark to his place…

The wind roared in his ears, nearly loud enough to deafen. He was flying a bit too fast, Clark realised, and slowed down from Mach speed back into something that wouldn’t cause sonic booms wherever he went. But it only took another thirty seconds for him to figure out that flying slower and quieter meant that his ears were picking up Bruce’s heartbeat again even though he had left Gotham behind. Clark closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and went faster again.

It wasn’t as if he was going to disturb anyone anyway. He was too high up for that.

He reached Smallville in time to watch the sun come up over the fields, casting a gold-orange glow over the thick, waxy leaves of the new shoots. They teased at his ankles and shins as he landed and walked through them, careful to not step too heavily on the roots. The rooster opened a beady eye when he opened the door of the chicken coop but stayed mercifully silent with its head under its wing. Clark checked the feeders and waterers, scraping his fingertip over the edges before he picked up both and took them out to the tap to be scrubbed.

By the time he heard his mother’s footsteps echoing around the house, Clark had cleaned out the chicken coop, collected the eggs and washed them, swept up the manure from the cows’ pen and replaced the hay, fed and watered both sets of animals, and was left standing in front of the barn, staring at it. 

The roof that had given them trouble for so long had been completely replaced, the tiles so new that they shone underneath the early morning light. The door that could never be closed properly – his mother usually had to slam it hard because there was a problem with the hinges – was gone, too, and in its place was a new door that had a coat of baby blue paint – his parents never liked using light colours, because they were so easily dirtied. Even the frame was new: a darker blue shade that contrasted well with the pale yellow that replaced the rust-red that had used to cover the barn.

“A few weeks after we got the farm back, the bank called,” his mother told him. She was standing by the bottom step of the house, one hip leaning against the railing – that was new, too, a shiny chrome instead of the old scratchy wood – as she looked at him. “Apparently there had been some kind of mix-up. The payments I made before on the mortgage were too high, and so the bank actually owed us money instead of the other way around. Something like that.” She shrugged. “I used it to fix up the place a bit.”

“Oh,” Clark said. 

“I’m pretty sure all of that was a pile of bullshit,” his mother continued, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “More like the bank’s new owner saw how rundown the place was and finagled some excuse. But a friend of Lois’s helped me look over the documents, and they were legal and above board. So, I took the money.”

Bruce. Of course it had been Bruce. Clark resisted the urge to rub a hand over his face, instead cocking his head to the side. “Want me to make coffee?” he asked.

“Sure,” his mother said. “Come on in, then.”

The steps didn’t squeak anymore. As a kid, he used to be so afraid whenever he was walking or even sitting on them, because he went through years thinking that his strength also meant that he was ridiculously heavy. Middle-school biology lessons taught him muscle density, after all, and that was before he realised that his very existence threw every biological law out of order.

As he walked through the house, Clark categorised the changes. The old, lumpy couch with the squeaky springs was gone. The kitchen had an _island_ now, and the metal of the sink shone underneath the sunlight spilling through the windows. But the television before which they had used to pile together to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings was still the same, and the shelves that Clark had made with his dad hadn’t changed, either. Even the slightly lopsided second shelf hadn’t been fixed.

No new coffee machine. Just a kettle that he put to boil over the old gas stove with the flints on all broken and thus had to be lit with a long, handheld lighter that ran out of fuel frequently enough that sometimes Clark cheated by using his heat vision. He did it properly this time, and then turned and took down the jar of instant coffee, putting a few teaspoons of the powder into the mugs. 

His own still had a chip at the side. He traced it lightly.

“Sorry,” Clark said. “I know I should’ve visited sooner.” It had been four months since he started visiting Ramona. And even before that, he hadn’t been exactly been popping by frequently either. Even with the phone calls…

The kettle whistled. Clark picked it up and poured hot water into the mug, adding a dash of milk and two sugars into his mother’s – none for himself – before bringing them over to the kitchen table. It was still the slightly rickety folding thing. Even the tablecloth looked familiar.

“It’s fine,” his mother said, sipping her coffee. After a moment, she laughed to herself. “Well, it’s not fine for you to leave your old mother alone for so long and answer only in monosyllables to her phone calls.” Her lips quirked up slightly at him. “But you’ve gone on longer trips without a word before, so I had an idea about your reasons.”

“Really?” Clark blinked.

“You needed to find yourself again,” his mother said. “After you died.”

Clark ducked his head down. Still, he was pretty sure that she saw his wince anyway. He had never been particularly good at hiding anything from her.

“It was a good thing for me, too, you know,” his mother said. When Clark peeked at her through the fall of his hair, he saw that she was smiling, eyes distant. “It lets me get used to the idea that you’re back. That you’re really alive again after I buried you.”

Biting his lip, Clark nodded. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?” his mother blinked.

“For dying,” Clark said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “For not listening to you when you told me that I… I could be whatever I want to be. That I don’t have to be…” He waved to his own chest, motioning to symbol of the House of El emblazoned there. 

He had worn the clothes Bruce had lent him to go to sleep. He didn’t have anything other than his uniform in the morning. That had been partly why he hadn’t stayed, too. The reason why he found himself here.

Maybe he should’ve changed into civilian clothes when he had been doing those chores. But it had… Somehow, he didn’t even think about it. It wasn’t as if any of the smells of the farm would stick to the Kryptonian fabric anyway.

“Oh, Clark,” his mother said. When he looked up, she was reaching out. He took her hands into his own, letting her run her thumbs over his knuckles. “You don’t have to be sorry about that. You don’t have to be sorry for doing what you thought to be right. For saving people.” She stood up and walked over to him, leaning her hip against the table’s edge as she ran her fingers over his hair. “Do you know why I told you that?”

Clark shook his head.

“Because I was afraid,” she told him, voice barely audible. “What mother won’t be, when confronted with the very real possibility that her son might be taken away from her permanently? What mother won’t be afraid for her son when she sees that he’s pouring everything he has into helping others, but they’re still blaming and hating him for it?”

Closing his eyes, Clark dropped his head down. He let out a long, low breath. “I wish I could do it better,” he whispered. “I wish I could do even more.” _I wish,_ he thinks, nearly viciously, _I could do everything_.

But hadn’t he been learning these past few months that it wasn’t such a bad thing? That it was alright to ask for help, because then he would be less alone? The first time he laughed with Victor was still etched in his memory. That moment when he blew and Steppenwolf’s axe iced over, and Diana ran in to attack, having _understood_ without him saying a word… that was a good memory, too. If that was alright then why…

Why did he wake up to the ceiling of Bruce’s guestroom, and felt so terrified?

He lifted his head. The new couch in the living room caught his eye. It wasn’t some leather monstrosity – his mother’s tastes didn’t run in that direction – and though the covers were new, they were still the same kind of floral prints that his mother liked; that she probably sewed herself. It wasn’t _that_ different, but…

In Gotham, Bruce’s heartbeat suddenly sped up. Within a couple of seconds, it started thundering, his breathing growing ragged, broken. Clark closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sound, but he couldn’t convince himself hard enough, quick enough, because he was still listening when Bruce _gasped_ like he was dying.

Nightmares. No wonder the other bedrooms in the lake house were so far away from Bruce’s. As he listened to the rustle of blankets being thrown back and the quiet taps of bare feet on floorboards, he wondered if Bruce would ever actually tell him of the nightmares. Or was it something that Clark had to figure out on his own, too? 

“Clark.” His mother’s fingers carded through his hair, the gentle touch drawing him away from Gotham back into the farmhouse. Back to his mother’s face, brows furrowed with worry as she looked at him. “What happened?”

He smiled weakly. “Does something need to happen before I come back?”

“Of course not,” his mother chided, tapping him lightly on the temple with her fingertips. “But you must’ve noticed that you only rush here during unholy hours when something is bothering you.”

Well, she was right about that. Like she was usually right about him. That was why he was here, wasn’t it?

“I broke up with Lois,” he blurted out. Better to get the most disappointing news out first, right? 

His mother nodded. “I know,” she said, running her hand over his hair again. When he blinked up at her, she smiled. “Lois and I still talk, you know? Even though she wouldn’t be my daughter-in-law anymore, we’re friends.” Her eyes grew distant for a moment. “It helped a lot to have her there. When you were gone.”

“Oh,” Clark said.

“But that’s not what’s really bothering you, is it?”

It wasn’t. Lois breaking up with him had seemed… something inevitable, almost. He had loved her, and Clark was pretty sure that he would always love her. And he wouldn’t lie to himself that there had been no passion between them because there had been. It was only that…

That she was right. He could save her, but he wouldn’t let her save him. And that was… that wasn’t how things were supposed to work. Even if he was alright with it, she had too much sense of self, too much _pride_ , to allow things to continue like that. She would want to save things too.

In Gotham, a door opened. Bruce breathed in, sharp and deep, and his heartbeat jumped for three seconds before he exhaled and it calmed again. The door closed. Clark told himself to stop listening.

“Around four months ago,” he started, focusing back on his mother. “I heard something in Metropolis that I wanted to investigate. I got permission from Perry to do that, and I… I met this girl. Her name is Ramona.”

Nodding, his mother stood from the table. She grabbed the chair and pulled it closer. “Go on,” she encouraged.

Clark told her. Not everything – not the fights he had with Bruce, not the ugly parts of Ramona’s existence that was writ all over the girl’s body – but enough to sketch out what he had been trying to do. The ways that Bruce had stepped in to help. Everything the team had done and would be doing to help.

“How do you deal with it, Mom?” Clark asked once he was done, eyes fixed now on the new kitchen island. The counter was made of sandstone. “It’s just… If you knew that the money from the bank isn’t… that it’s…”

“But it’s from Bruce?” his mother finished for him. When Clark nodded, she laughed, ducking her head down and shaking it. “Well, he _does_ have a lot of it.”

“Mom, I’m serious,” Clark protested.

“So am I,” his mother said, raising an eyebrow. “But you have asked him about it, right? The reasons why he had done all of this for you?” 

Clark nodded. “He said…” The words were stuck themselves to his mind like a burr, and it was just as difficult to pry out to form in his own mouth. “Something that he wanted to do, and because he could.”

“Which part of it is more important to you, Clark?” his mother asked. “That he wants to? Or that he can?”

“Should they be more important?”

“Maybe,” his mother admitted easily. “But which one do _you_ think to be more important, Clark?”

“I…” Clark trailed off. In Gotham, there was the sound of fists hitting leather and the squeak of metal chains swinging. Bruce’s heartbeat was fast, but steady. His breaths came out of in rasping huffs. Clark tried again to shut off his hearing. He pressed his knuckles to his eyes. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know.”

“Alright,” his mother said. Her hand was very warm on this thigh. “Can I ask you something else, then?”

Clark didn’t want any more questions. Didn’t want to _think_. But he had come here for a reason, and he knew he should stop running away, should stop hiding. He should at least have a reason to give Bruce if Bruce asked him why he didn’t stay. 

He nodded.

“That girl you have been helping… Ramona, right?” Another nod. “Alright. Do you blame her for not being able to help you as well?”

Eyes flying open, Clark stared at his mother. “What?”

“Do you blame the people you save for not saving you?” his mother continued, head tilted to the side. “Do you blame them for not being grateful that you expended all the effort you did to save them? Do you think worse of them for not repaying you?”

“No!” His yell was loud enough to echo in the kitchen. “No, I— Mom! Of course not! How can I— how can I think that way?”

“I do,” his mother said quietly. “I get so _angry_ sometimes, Clark. I watched as they blamed you, as they hurt you, and I knew that you never _had_ to save them. Then you died, and then they were sorry, and even as I mourned you I…” she shook her head. “The thoughts I had. That it was _good_ that they were sorry now. That they were all so…”

“Mom,” Clark protested weakly, grabbing for her hands and holding them tightly in his own. “You don’t have to…”

“You never felt the same way,” his mother continued, lifting her eyes up to meet his. “Not once.”

“No,” Clark said, voice soft. “I never did.”

“Why?”

“Because they shouldn’t have to,” Clark said. It was an easy enough answer. “They shouldn’t have to be grateful. It was a choice I made on my own. It’s not fair to ask them to feel grateful when I…” he stopped. His eyes went wide.

“When you did it because you want to,” his mother finished for him. “Because you can.” __

__Clark nodded, mute.

“Why is it different when Bruce does the same thing?”

“Because he’s…” Clark looked around the kitchen, and then focused on what he could see of the living room. He thought of the barn. He thought of Bruce, in Gotham, alone with only a punching bag, having woken up from a nightmare to find that Clark had broken his promise. He swallowed. “Because he’s doing it for me.”

“That’s not all of it, right?” his mother said.

“No,” Clark said. He closed his eyes, head dropping down to his chest. “Because he’s doing everything that I can’t do, and I…” He let go of her hands to press his knuckles against his eyes. Hard enough to make stars explode behind the lids. “I can’t do the same for him. Because he won’t… he won’t let me.”

That was why Lois had broken up with him, wasn’t it? Because Clark saved her, would keep saving her no matter what, and yet Clark wouldn’t listen to her, wouldn’t let her help him as well. If that was the case, then…

But Clark didn’t think he had Lois’s strength. He couldn’t pull away. Hadn’t he already shown that last night, when he had grasped at straws to try to help Bruce, and nearly destroyed himself in the process?

“I don’t think that’s true,” his mother said. Clark opened his eyes, blinking.

“What?”

His mother smiled at him, her fingertips callused and rough as she brushed them over the curve of his cheekbone. “You save people, Clark,” she said softly. “Not only by pulling them out of a burning building or plucking them from freefall, but you save them just by being who you are. All that you are and all that you choose to be.” Her other hand splayed over the El shield on his chest.

_That’s not true_ , Clark thought. _You only think that because you’re my mother._ “I don’t know if I have ever helped him, much less saved him,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I can.”

_Master Bruce_ , Alfred said in Gotham. _You’re up early today_.

The chains continued to squeak. Bruce’s inhale was deep and shuddering. _I’m going into the office_ , he said. _If anyone calls here looking for me, tell them that I’m busy_.

_There are only very few people who will look_ here _for you, Master Bruce_ , Alfred said. _I believe all of them deserve at least a few minutes of your time._

_I’m busy_ , Bruce repeated. The sound of footsteps.

_Very well then_ , Alfred said. _Master Wayne_.

Bruce’s footsteps stopped. His breathing stopped. Then both continued. Clark squeezed his eyes shut and focused _hard_ on the sound of the wind outside, on the clucking of the chickens and the wet sounds of the cows chewing on their cud. He narrowed his range until Gotham was out of his reach; everything of Bruce was drowned out by the sounds of the farm.

“In fact,” Clark continued, hating his hearing more than ever. “I think I might’ve made everything worse for him.” No, he was _sure_ about that. 

“Well,” his mother started. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No,” Clark shook his head. He stared down at their hands, and then pulled back his own, clenching tight onto his own knees. “Are there any chores I can help you with?” 

His mother looked at him, eyes dark and steady, for a long moment. Then she stood. “I haven’t had the time to get the sink replaced,” she said. “And I think it might take some looking at.”

She was giving him time, Clark knew. Giving him space. Letting him figure things out on his own, because he was too old by now for her to pry, for her to step in and solve his problems. Not that she had ever done the latter, because his problems had never really been…

Clark stood up suddenly, heading over to the sink. He placed his hand on the counter, breathing hard. His thoughts were spiralling.

He heard his mother’s footsteps as she walked towards him. Her hands were warm and solid as they rested on his shoulder blades. But that only reminded him of last night, of how Bruce had calmed him, had held him steady when he had been shaking too hard to breathe. 

Last night, when Clark had tried to help, and had ended up falling apart so badly that Bruce had to put the pieces back together. When Clark had tried to lessen his burdens, and had, instead, made Bruce carry the weight of him along with the world that was already on his shoulders. He pressed his knuckles against his eyes.

_Fuck_. 

“The sink,” he heard himself say. He forced open his eyes. “Right. Let’s do something about this.”

It was something he could actually deal with.

***

Two days later, Clark typed in the last word of the third article. His hands lifted off the keyboard as he kicked his feet against the desk. His chair careened across the tiles as he tilted his head back and hissed out a long, “ _Yesssssssssss_.”

“You’re done?” Lois asked, peering at him over the top of her own monitor.

“Just need to print,” Clark said. His soles squeaked on the floor as he dragged himself back towards his desk, stabbing Ctrl + S a few times before he slammed down on the print button for all three documents currently open. “And _now_ I’m done.”

Lois opened her mouth, and then closed it. She hunched deeper behind her monitor as Clark stood up and made a beeline for the printer. “You know,” she said, voice too soft for anyone else but him to hear. “I’m glad that we’re no longer dating, because I only hear you make that sound after we had _really_ good sex, and it’s beneath me to feel jealous of a few pieces of paper.”

Steve Lombard stared at him as Clark burst out laughing. Clark plucked the printed articles from the printer’s tray and waved them at him. “I’m done,” he said. “Until edits anyway. But _done_!”

Slowly, Steve nodded. Clark threw him another slightly crazed grin as he sped towards Perry’s office. He did his best to not break the door into half as he knocked, but the sound was probably too loud anyway.

“Are you on fucking fire or something, Kent?” Perry yelled at him from the inside. “Get your ass in here and stop being a nuisance!”

Clark pushed open the door, barely remembering to close it behind him before he brandished the articles at Perry. “I’m _done_ ,” he said. “Front page news for tomorrow, the day after that, _and_ the day after _that_.”

“Only after I approve,” Perry grunted, taking them from him. “I’ll have your edits by four.” Then he looked up to Clark, and his eyes softened. “This is your first big story, Kent. Take the next few hours off. Go celebrate and come back by four.” He paused. “You can’t bring Lane. She still has work.”

“Uh,” Clark said. He scratched at the back of his neck. “I think she might kill me if I drag her away from her computer right now, so… Anyway, thanks, Chief!” He headed for the door.

“Don’t call me chief!” Perry yelled at his back.

It was a good thing that Perry had given him the rest of the day off. He needed to head over to Gotham anyway to check out the layout of the area that they would be hitting. Sionis’s operations apparently wasn’t just limited to one part of the town like Mannheim’s was, but instead scattered throughout the city. 

Clark paused. Gotham. He stared at his phone, which he had pulled out in preparation for informing the rest of the team that he had submitted the article. 

He hadn’t said a word to Bruce. Bruce hadn’t spoken to him, either. His hearing, thankfully, was still under control, but he knew that the moment he entered Gotham, he would… Clark dropped back down on his seat and let out a sigh. 

“Government conspiracy time,” Lois said, her eyes fixed on her laptop. “Go away, Clark.”

“Wait,” Clark said. He stood up and headed over to her side. “What do you mean, government conspiracy?”

Her hand slammed into his face, blocking his voice and also pushing him away. “My scoop, no touch,” Lois said. Then, in a softer voice: “Will tell you more if it becomes relevant.” Back to her usual voice: “Go _away_ , Clark.”

“Yes, yes,” Clark said. “Perry gave me a few hours of time off anyway.”

“Good. Go find your next scoop and stop trying to poach mine,” Lois said. Clark gave her a grinning salute before he headed for the elevators.

The _Planet_ was situated on St. Martin’s island, separated from the main New Troy island of Metropolis by the Hobb’s and West Rivers. It was a sort of a business district mostly for media and entertainment – Galaxy Communications had a building up north, and Warner Brothers had an office to the east – so, usually, it was usually pretty safe for him to leave his stuff behind as long as he tucked them away out of sight of the cleaners.

Still, there was an alleyway that he usually headed for whenever he needed to change. Clark was halfway into ducking inside, one hand on the handle of his glasses to take them off, when he felt two hands grip tightly on the lapels of his suit jacket. He swallowed back a yelp as he was practically _dragged_ into the depth of the alley.

“Yo, farmboy.”

Matches Malone looked different in daylight – his slicked-back hair shone with what was obviously an excessive amount of hair gel; the hairs of the moustache decorating his upper lip looked a little too coarse to be real; his jacket, mismatched tie and pants caught far too much attention because of just how eye-searingly ugly they were; and his thick and oversized sunglasses looked incongruous because they were the only things necessary to his outfit.

Clark swallowed. _Bruce_ , he almost wanted to say, because that was surely the person standing in front of him, since Matches Malone was dead and had been so for the past two days. But Malone’s grin was a little too sharp, and his fists on Clark’s collar nearly tight enough to choke.

“Mister Malone,” Clark said instead. “I…”

“The rumours of my death have greatly exaggerated,” Malone said, tilting his head to the side and looking at Clark over the tops of his glasses. “But one thing ain’t wrong, farmboy: I gotta disappear for a good long time, so this is the last time I’ll be seeing you for a while.” 

_I’ve never met you before this_ , Clark thought, confused. _We’re not… we have never_ … He swallowed hard, staring at the man in front of him whom he had technically never met, but whose heartbeat he knew nearly as well as his own. “Oh,” he said. “I hope that you’re not— you’re not in danger.”

Malone barked a laugh, the sound loud enough to echo down the alleyway. His hands at Clark’s lapels splayed out and slid up, callused fingertips and scarred palms curling around Clark’s neck. Clark’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Ain’t got a time when my life’s not in danger, farmboy,” Malone drawled, head cocked to the side. “Hazards of the job.” Then his thumb hooked under Clark’s collar, loosening the tie before flicking at the button hidden underneath. Nearly enough pressure to pause Clark’s breathing. “But that’s all you haveta say? I’m _leaving_ , farmboy.”

“I…” Clark swallowed again. Malone was staring at him from over the top of his glasses, and his strange-familiar eyes were fixed on Clark’s. “Why are you here, Mister Malone? What are you… you’re risking your life being here.”

“That I am,” Malone admitted easily. “Ain’t no good to have a dead man walking around. Might give people ideas that he ain’t that dead after all.” His hand on Clark’s neck shifted, moving to the nape. Blunt nails scraped down the back of Clark’s neck, carding through the small, soft hairs there. “But you still don’t know what I’m here for?”

Clark fought down a shudder. He… “I know,” Clark said, voice soft. “But… _why_ , Mister Malone? You haven’t… you haven’t shown any interest in me before.”

Another chuckle. Then Malone’s lips curved up, a hint of white teeth flashing before he let go of Clark. But before Clark could get used to the chill where warm skin had been, Malone was already bending, sinking the knees of his maroon trousers onto the filthy ground of the alley. Clark’s hands shook, and he clawed at the concrete behind him as Malone pressed his mouth against his thigh.

“Were you listening when I told the girlie at the whorehouse what I needed from her, farmboy?” Malone asked, his voice slightly muffled by the material of Clark’s clothes as he scraped his teeth over his thighs. “Did you hear what she did?”

“No, I,” Clark shuddered, head tipping back against the wall. This was… He should push Malone away. He should grip him by his shoulders and shake him and ask _Bruce_ what he was doing, what he was thinking coming here to offer Clark this. But his hands felt like they were stuck to the wall; felt as if any effort to pull away would be far too much. “I…”

“She looked at me and asked if she had too much tits for me,” Malone said, voice casual even as his fingertips skimmed over Clark’s belt. “Looked at me and saw a man who couldn’t have sex with a woman like her ‘cause he’s in too much want for a man.” His eyes flicked upwards. His pupils weren’t dilated; the hazel was still light. “Is she right ‘bout me, farmboy?”

_What are you doing_ , Clark thought wildly. _Why are you doing this?_ One of hands peeled off the wall and came forward to land on Malone’s shoulder. Malone’s fingers froze where they had been tugging Clark’s belt out of its loops. _Why can’t I stop you?_ Clark’s thumb ran down Malone’s neck, following the line from behind his ear to the hollow of the throat. _Why don’t I want to stop you_?

Drumbeats in his ear. Was that his own heartbeat? Or was it Malone’s? Or was it some remnant of memory left of Bruce’s fist hitting the punching bag, over and over? Clark didn’t know. He—

“I can’t tell you if you want me, Mister Malone,” he said, licking his lips slightly. “Only you can do that.”

Malone’s eyes darted down to Clark’s mouth for the briefest of moments before he smirked again. “Ain’t the point,” he said. “What I’m asking, farmboy, if you’re gonna let me do this.”

Should he? Did he want to? Clark reached down, his thumb brushing over the right temple of Malone’s sunglasses before sliding over to the bridge. He pressed down on the plastic, hearing its soft protests as he met Malone’s hazel eyes. “Bruce,” he whispered, turning his hand over and running his knuckles over Malone’s cheek. “ _Bruce_.”

Those eyes didn’t shift. Malone tilted his head, running his teeth over the inside of Clark’s thigh again. “Been a while since I’ve had someone call me by the wrong name,” he said, New Jersey slurring his words even more. “You’re lucky I like you, farmboy, or I’d leave you here high and dry.”

Was it Bruce who liked him, or was it Malone? Was it Bruce kneeling here in Malone's sunglasses and clothes, or Malone a whole creature in himself, with his own voice and his own mind? Clark didn't know, couldn't be sure, but the sounds of Bruce's punches on the bag echoed in his head and the weight of his silence over the past two days wrapped around his heart so tightly that it hurt to beat.

It would be easier with Malone, Clark realised. He barely knew him, barely understood who he was. He didn't have the pieces of Malone's very self in his hands, scattered and shattered through his own careless strength. It would be easier like this. 

Maybe it would be easier for Bruce, too. Maybe that was why Malone was here. A dead man saying his last goodbyes made for a good excuse. 

Slowly, he pushed Malone's glasses up. Until those hazel eyes - so much like Bruce's, Bruce's eyes - were shielded once more. “No,” he murmured. “I'm not going to stop you.”

Malone didn't look up to him. He only nodded. The rasp of Clark's zipper being lowered was very loud. Clark bit his lip as Malone tugged his khaki pants down. He heard the quiet gasp Malone made when the blue of the uniform was revealed.

“Quite something, aren't you?” Malone said, voice lilting upwards as if sharing a joke. “Farmboy.”

“You already knew,” Clark said. “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Malone said, pulling Clark’s pants down further. The slices of sunlight pouring from above caught on unearthly-smooth Kryptonian cloth, making it shimmer. “’Course I did.” He drawled out the words slowly, each one matching a scratch of his beard against Clark’s uniform. 

Lidding his eyes, Clark nodded. He reached down and slid his thumb over the ley line of the uniform, right at the juncture of the thigh. The hexagons retreated to reveal his cock, already half-hard.

Malone hummed. “Fucking gorgeous,” he breathed, and there was a shudder in his voice that made the New Jersey slur ring false. “Fuck, you’re goddamned gorgeous, farmboy.”

Before Clark could react, before he could even _think_ , Malone was already opening his mouth and taking him inside. Clark squeezed his eyes shut, slamming his head backwards. Concrete rained down to the ground, some of it dusting Malone’s oversized shoulder-pads and gelled hair. But he didn’t seem to notice, eyes closed as he pressed forward, Clark’s cock brushing the back of his throat as he buried his nose into the dark curls at the base.

It didn’t fit, Clark thought suddenly. A man like Malone who had spent his entire life in organised crime… It didn’t fit for him to be so good at sucking cock. To enjoy it as much as he obviously was. It didn’t fit for him to seem so comfortable on his knees.

And it didn’t fit for Clark to touch Malone like this, either. Farmboys didn’t have sex in alleyways with near-strangers, and Superman… Superman didn’t have sex at all.

But Clark’s hand was already moving down, curling around the nape of Malone’s neck. Just holding on there, not gripping, but Malone _groaned_ , low and deep, the sound vibrating over Clark’s cock as he drew backwards, his tongue swirling over the head. Clark gritted his teeth to bite back the name that wanted to escape – it would be the wrong one – and he rocked his hips forward, following the thumbs rubbing circles on his hips as he fucked deeper into Malone’s throat.

There was the ghost of another man, here.

Malone’s belt clicked as he undid it with one hand, the other still clenched tight over Clark’s hip. The sound of calluses rubbing against dry skin echoed in Clark’s ears, staccato to Malone’s wet lips over his own cock. Clark bit down even harder on his lips, focusing on that sound, dragging it into his lungs to set fire to his blood. Malone dipped the tip of his tongue into Clark’s slit, licking up the precome, and Clark arched against the wall, fingers tearing out chunks of concrete as the heat rose higher and higher.

As his hips snapped forward, he reached out. His fingers closed around the bridge of Malone’s sunglasses, and snapped them into two. Plastic fell to the ground. Before Bruce could close his eyes, before he could look away, Clark gripped onto his jaw, feeling the bulge of the cheek where Bruce had taken him into his mouth. He caught those dark, dark eyes. And that was enough. 

He came down Bruce’s throat with white obscuring the world and the sounds of Bruce’s broken panting in his ear. Clark felt his legs give in, and he was blindly grabbing at the jacket, the shirt, pulling Bruce close to him as he slammed their mouths together, darting his tongue into Bruce’s mouth even as he curled his fingers around Bruce’s still-hard cock. Too dry, far too dry, but Bruce didn’t seem to be complaining, his face buried into Clark’s shoulders and hands clawing at his arms as Clark jerked him off, hand unsteady and trembling, until Bruce came, shaking and gasping, all over Clark’s fingers.

They stayed like that, clutching at each other, for long moments before Bruce’s shoulders started to shake. 

“Didn’t think a farmboy would know how to do that,” he said, one eyebrow quirked up and Malone’s slur back in full force.

Clark shrugged. He didn’t want to explain that _farmboy_ wasn’t entirely accurate a descriptor for him. Because Clark didn’t have the kind of innocence that the moniker implied. He’d had sex before, and mostly with strangers; that wasn’t the problem. It was… Letting them in. Looking at them as beyond someone who belonged to a certain country or a certain city – and, just once, a certain rig – and whose life would never touch his once he had left them behind.

“You’re not the only one who can surprise,” he said. Then, before Malone could speak, Clark took off his own glasses. He slid them over Malone’s face, watching as the thick, non-prescription glass cut the light of those hazel eyes, turning them dull and strange. 

Malone blinked at him.

“A souvenir,” Clark said softly. He rocked back on his heels and stood. “For your travels.”

“I ain’t much a guy for holding on,” Malone said. But he didn’t take off the glasses, instead standing up as well.

Clark gave him a crooked smile. He didn’t have to wonder if Bruce understood the irony of what he had just said; he knew that he definitely did.

“Neither am I,” he said, giving back the same lie. “Just thought it’d be nice for you to have something.”

Adjusting the glasses so they fit better on his face, Malone smiled at him, too soft and too dark around the eyes to be sincere. “Ain’t much for refusing gifts either,” he told Clark as he set his clothes back into their proper places.

It didn’t fit, Clark realised. His glasses didn’t fit the rest of Malone’s clothes. They gave him a certain studiousness that clashed so badly with the hoodlum aesthetic he had going on. Clark was almost tempted to open his mouth or to take them back, but Malone’s back was to him, now, and he was already making to leave the alleyway.

Clark kept his eyes on that broad back until Malone made the turn. Then he pulled off the rest of his clothes with his clean hand and urged his uniform to cover him fully again. 

Up in the top level of the troposphere, Clark stared at his hand. He turned his head and pressed his nose against the skin, breathing in. But there was only salt and bitterness there, and none of the hint of Bruce’s natural scent that had been locked in his memory from two nights ago.

He shoved his hand into the clouds to clean it off. Then he flew back down towards Metropolis.

Three hours later, back in the alleyway, he sent a message to the team that he had finished the articles, and they could commence the next part of the plan.

Bruce was the first to reply: _2200 EDT at headquarters_.

Clark pocketed his phone. He flattened his hand against the wall and scuffed the toe of his shoes against the ground. Here were the signs that this afternoon had not been a fever-dream: finger marks on the concrete wall; spots on the filthy ground that were slightly cleaner than the rest; a broken pair of sunglasses. He picked up the pieces of the last one, turning them over and over. 

But not even that could tell if Malone had been the ghost, or if that had been Bruce instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA you _thought_ that things would be resolved? Nope. I’ve done 300k slow burn before, you guys. Don’t underestimate me. : > (This fic isn’t 300k, though. I started writing this because I need to learn how to control myself with regards to word count and complexities. I’m aiming for maximum 150k.)


	12. decorating (the rooms)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman drops into the opening ceremony of Six Swans. The team raid the Russians and finally decide on a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: American politics, and brief description of a panic attack.

“It’s not going to do much good for PR if you’re not letting reporters follow you,” Tiffany pointed out.

Tilting his head back – her six-inch heels still fell short of letting her match his height – Bruce shrugged. “I’m not doing this for the PR,” he said.

Tiffany snorted. “It’s not about what you’re doing this for, but how it’s going to look like to the country,” she said. “Also, you still haven’t given me the name of that superhero team that you’re sponsoring.”

“They’re still working on the name,” Bruce said. He had _meant_ to ask the team that night they had arrested Mannheim and Sionis, but then Clark had— other matters had taken precedence. And their raids to rescue the women last night hadn’t been a good time for him to ask, either, because he had been… 

Well, most of his concentration had been taken up by not being distracted by Superman’s voice over the temporary comms that Victor had set up for the team. Though all that effort was pretty much wasted, it wasn’t as if he could turn back time and divert his attention properly. Things would be so much easier if he could actually do that. 

Anyway. “Tell you what, if I manage to see any of them soon, I’ll remind them about it,” he finished.

“Bruce,” Tiffany said, her voice suddenly much closer. Her fingers caught on his sleeve. Bruce froze where he was, hands clenching into fists by his side so that he wouldn’t end up punching her. 

He breathed out sharply through his teeth. “Don’t _do_ that,” he gritted out.

“Sorry,” Tiffany said, raising her hands in the gesture of surrender. “But, look, I know you don’t think much of PR – that’s why you have me do the thinking for you – but you’re giving me practically nothing to work with here. We’re basically setting ourselves up in a war against D.C. armed with only a literal fairytale and some pretty words. I need something concrete.”

Looking up, Bruce took in the building that was in front of them. Situated in the east of the midtown island of Gotham, it had been a backpacker’s hostel until the skyrocketing rental prices – caused by the gentrification of the area – had driven most of the potential customers away. Wayne Holdings had bought the property from the owner right before bankruptcy, and Bruce had been using the basement level as a makeshift safehouse until he realised it could be better utilised as the headquarters of Six Swans. 

“This isn’t enough?” he waved at it. 

Tiffany sighed. “Metaphorical concrete, not literal,” she said, sighing. “Bruce, no matter how many contacts I have with Reuters and Associated Press, there’s only so much I can do when I only have disparate reports of superhero activities that happen in the dead of the night.” She dragged a hand through her hair, looking frustrated. “Give me something here, I’m begging you.”

“Have you read this morning’s edition of the _Daily Planet_?” Bruce asked.

“What?” Tiffany blinked. “No, I haven’t. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Read it,” Bruce told her, pushing the door open and holding it there until she followed him inside. “There should be something there that you can use, at least.” At her dubious look, he sighed. “The journalist who wrote it is in contact with the team,” he explained. “And the article had a lot to do with last night’s raids?”

Opening her mouth, Tiffany closed it. “You need to tell me these things _before_ they happen,” she hissed out, making a beeline for one of the couches at the lobby while digging for her phone. “You’re seriously making me consider taking a pay cut here.”

“How about the pay raise in apology?” Bruce raised an eyebrow

“Throwing money at me isn’t good enough!” Tiffany said, flopping down on the couch. She lowered her phone for a moment to meet his gaze. “Look, go talk to the girls. I’ll be here, trying to rewrite the speech you’re supposed to give to a room full of reporters in,” she made a show of checking her watch, “ _two hours_.”

“You’re a miracle worker,” Bruce drawled. Before she could reply by glaring at him, he scanned the lobby – there were only workers bringing in standing bouquets of flowers as well-wishes from other companies; he could see Stagg Industries’ hideously clashing colours all the way from here – before he headed up the stairs.

The building was six storeys tall. The majority of the renovations were concentrated on the bottom two floors: the second level as recreation rooms and offices for the employees, and the first level for even more offices as well as the lobby and waiting area. The top four levels had been refurbished but mostly kept as they were – dorm rooms, single rooms, and double rooms – and were meant for the women and girls to use as living areas until they were either sent home or had made enough money to find places of their own. Rent was free until they found jobs, at which point it would still be mere pittance compared to the general living standards in Gotham. 

On the second floor, he hesitated in front of the large recreational room slash kitchen before pushing the door open. 

Ileana stood there, her back to him with her elbows on the windowsill. A cigarette dangled from between her fingers as she looked out to the streets below.

“The others won’t be coming out to see you,” she told him without turning around. “Our experiences with wealthy men claiming to save us haven’t been particularly pleasant.” She flicked at the filter of her cigarette, sending ash scattering down below. “No offence meant, Mister Wayne.”

“You meant every offence I could take,” Bruce countered, amused despite himself. “But you’re in your full right to do so.”

When she turned around to look at him, Bruce was careful to not lean against the doorframe – it was what Matches Malone would’ve done. But no recognition came to her, only a narrow-eyed suspicion as she watched him for long moments.

“Where are the reporters?” she asked finally.

“Probably back in their offices,” Bruce replied easily. “They’ll be here in two hours, but only outside; they won’t get to come in. Tomorrow or the day after, those who have passed our background checks and preliminary interviews would get to meet you.” He paused. “And only those of you who will be willing to meet with them.”

“Hah,” Ileana said. She took a long drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke into the room even as she threw the butt out of the window. There was a challenge in her eyes, but Bruce merely tipped his head to the side without saying a word.

He couldn’t blame her for her attempts to test him. He knew what it looked like: some rich man deciding to throw his lot with them, fighting against his own government for what seemed like no benefit or advantage to him whatsoever. It was far too good to be true, and though Ileana herself didn’t go through the same thing, she knew enough of those who had to be cautious.

“I’m not going to ask you to believe me,” he said quietly. “Only that you give us a chance to prove our sincerity.”

“That’s usually the first thing people say when they’re going to lie to us,” Ileana drawled, crossing her arms as she stepped to the side and leaned against the wall. “You’re not helping your case here, Mister Wayne.”

Bruce spread out his hands. “Nothing I can _say_ will be enough,” he said. “Only the actions of this organisation will be. That’s the risk you have to take, Miss.” 

“Not the only risk,” Ileana said, voice softer now. Her eyes grew distant as she stared out of the window again. “Every breath we continue to take within the confines of this building, every drop of water we drink, every bite of food we eat… They are all risks, Mister Wayne. You’re holding all of the cards here, and our hands are empty. What will we do if you decide to call in the debt?” Slowly, her gaze turned back to him. She smiled, wide and empty.

“Were you expecting some kind of gratitude?”

“No,” Bruce said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and deliberately relaxed his shoulders as he met her gaze. “This is the choice I have made myself.” _Because I want to. Because I can_. He swallowed back the words, shaking his head. “It would be unfair to ask for your gratitude.”

“Most men would,” Ileana pointed out.

“I’m not most men,” Bruce said, paraphrasing a line from Diana. When she continued staring at him, clearly sceptical, he sighed. “If we continue like this, we’ll end up talking in circles. It’s up to you – each one of you – to decide if the risks you’re now taking will be worth it.” He paused. “To decide if I’m worthy enough of your trust.”

Just as he was about to turn, Ileana called out, “Aren’t you going to even ask for my name?”

He didn’t need to; Matches Malone had already told him. But she didn’t know that, and she shouldn’t. So, Bruce gave her a brief glance, half a smile tugging on his lips. “Only if you wish to give it,” he said. Then, he nodded and walked away.

She didn’t give it to him. But he didn’t expect her to, anyway.

Bruce had nearly reached the stairwell when he heard the sound of rapid footsteps. Blinking, he turned around just in time to watch two girls – they couldn’t be more than seventeen by the look of them – run towards him. Their faces were vaguely familiar from last night, but the Bat hadn’t had the time to ask them for their names. Not that he was the type to, anyway.

“Sir,” one of them said, practically gasping. “Are you someone important, sir?”

Shrugging, Bruce stuck out his hand. “That depends on what you need, Miss,” he said. “Bruce Wayne.”

They gaped at him. After a moment, Bruce let his hand drop back to his side. “What do you need?”

“Uh…” The one who had spoken said, clearly having gathered more courage than the other. “Ioana here wants to ask—” 

“There was a man who was arrested last night,” the other girl – Ioana – blurted out, interrupting her friend. “His name is Eduardo and I was wondering if… if…” she squeezed her eyes shut. Her friend squeezed her arm gently. “If you’ll put in a word somehow. Get him released.”

The only men arrested last night were pimps. But Bruce didn’t let that show on his face. “I don’t think I can do that,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as he could.

“He’s not a bad man,” Ioana told the floor, her accent growing thick enough that Bruce could barely understand her. “He has never… he’s never beaten me up. He’ll warn me if the customers coming are the cruel sort. And sometimes he… he gives me discounts when it comes to the drugs.” She paused, biting her lip. “Well, he doesn’t add as much to my debts as he should, and that’s… that’s the same thing, right?”

Bruce resisted the urge to slap his hand over his face. He let out a breath slowly, but it didn’t alleviate the weight that was settling over his chest.

“Those things aren’t enough for him to escape punishment for other things he had done,” he said, trying to phrase himself as gently as he could. “He still made use of you. Still profited from your pain.”

“But he was kind,” Ioana whispered. “He was… He was _kind_.”

 _No, he wasn’t_ , Bruce thought. _He might’ve been less of a bastard than the others, but that didn’t make him kind._ But he knew he couldn’t tell her that. He could already see it in her eyes: she had clung on so tightly to this man for far too long that any hint that he wasn’t who she had imagined him to be might break her irreparably. And Bruce… Bruce had never been good at fixing people. At healing them.

That was why he founded organisations hiring people who could do such things instead of trying himself.

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” Bruce said quietly. He couldn’t promise her anything, but— “I’ll pass on what you said to the Commissioner Gordon.” He paused, then explained. “He’s the one in charge of the arrests.”

“Oh, thank you!” Ioana said. “Thank you! I hope… I hope that Eduardo will be okay. He doesn’t deserve—” She closed her eyes, shoulders shaking. “He was _kind_.”

 _Mad people have only one story that they talk over and over_ , Bruce suddenly remembered. It was a quote from a book, he knew, but he couldn’t recall which it was, now. And… and perhaps Ioana wasn’t mad, but she had been broken enough by her circumstances that it was nearly the same. Bruce tore his eyes away from her and realised that the other girl was standing up on her tiptoes, trying to look out of the faraway window without letting go of her friend.

“Miss?” Bruce asked. “Are you… looking for someone?”

Her eyes darted back towards him and she sank back to her heels. “Just… just someone who has helped me a lot,” she murmured. “He’s a reporter, so I thought that maybe… maybe he’ll be here today.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. _Ramona_ , he realised. This was _Ramona_. The girl whom Clark had interviewed. The girl who had started everything because she had agreed to speak to a _Daily Planet_ reporter with a bleeding heart—

( _He had been selfish. Clark had left, and Bruce had wanted… He had wanted to_ know _, that was all. His heart was in knots and his head was a mess and he could afford neither, because Dick and Alfred knew something was wrong and he was teetering on the edge of losing both of them again because he couldn’t stop himself from lashing out. So—_  
  
_It had been a coward’s way out, going as Malone. Not only as Malone, but the Malone of fiction, Clark Kent’s source. Someone he had met on a regular basis. The man whom, like Ileana had suggested, Malone had fallen for so hard that he had found risking everything he had ever worked towards to be an acceptable option. He had expected nothing from Clark except laughter and ridicule; had_ wanted _Clark to laugh at him so that he could tear the last threads from his heart, leave himself bleeding but with full knowledge of the shape and depth the wound…_

_But Clark hadn’t laughed. Clark had kissed him instead. Clark had touched him, slipped his hand down Malone’s pants like he had wanted him, too; like Malone wasn’t the only one who had fallen hard. He had gasped Bruce’s name out like he had saying goodbye, like he was seeing him for the first time after a long period of separation. He had…_

_Clark had broken Malone’s glasses, broken the illusion. Then he had put his own on Malone’s face, on Bruce’s face. Then, that night, Superman had gone into Gotham, and he hadn’t lingered after the mission had been accomplished._

_Bruce had gone as Malone for a sword to carve out the Gordian’s knot that was in his heart. But all he had received were fingers reaching between his ribs, warm and gentle as they tangled the threads and tightened them until they threatened to strangle the breath from his lungs._ ) __

 __“Mister Wayne?” A voice at the edge of his hearing, nearly loud enough to pierce through the sudden deafening roar. “Mister Wayne!”

Pressing his knuckles hard against his temple, Bruce breathed in hard through his teeth to try to clear the fog.

“I’m alright,” he said, stepping back so that he was out of range of their hands. Then he had to catch himself against the railing to stop himself from careening backwards down the stairs. He shook his head harder. When he finally managed to focus his vision, two pairs of worried eyes were fixed on his face. Bruce pasted on a smile. He really should’ve eaten something today.

Clearing his throat, he turned towards Ramona, deliberately looking at a spot past her shoulder. “In any case, Miss, the press will only be here in,” he checked his watched, “an hour earliest. It’ll be safer if you wait in your rooms. You’ll be able to spot him from the window if he does appear.”

“Okay,” Ramona nodded. She took a step back away from Bruce, clearly giving him space as she tugged Ioana along with her. “Will you… will you be alright, sir?”

“I’ll be fine,” Bruce reassured them. He clenched his hand over the railing as he took a step backwards, carefully keeping his balance. “Please don’t worry about me.”

As they walked away from him, he kept the smile on his face, because Ramona kept looking back with that worried crease between her brows. He tried to not think very much about how pathetic he was that he was making one of the people he was supposed to help worry over him. 

Hissing in a breath, Bruce shook his head again. Then he headed down the stairs.

Tiffany didn’t look up from where she was furiously typing on her phone as he entered the lobby. He took a seat next to her, leaning back against the cushions. His eyes were halfway into lidding when she thrust the phone underneath his nose.

“Read the article, wrote up the preliminary outline for the new speech,” she reported shortly. “Look it over to see if you’re okay with things like that coming out of your mouth.”

Taking the phone, Bruce started to read. Then he had to stop at the third paragraph, because— “You’re quoting him.” His own voice sounded oddly hollow in his ears. “Clark Kent. You’re quoting him.” 

“Yes?” Tiffany said, sounding confused. “Isn’t that why you wanted me to read the article?”

 _No, that wasn’t…_ He had asked her to read it because the article was part of the plan. Because he knew there would be something relevant she could use even if he hadn’t read it himself. He should’ve, especially because he knew that Clark was a good writer, but he just… He couldn’t bring himself to, today.

“Guess so,” he said, and couldn’t even tell if he was telling her the truth or not. He rubbed his knuckle over the bridge of his nose and huffed out a long, low breath as he forced himself to keep reading.

He handed her phone back to her once he was done and forced his lips to stretch into some semblance of a smile. “Yeah,” he nodded. I definitely can work with this.”

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed on him for a long moment before she sighed. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll finish it up, then. It’ll be printed and handed to you at least fifteen minutes before the ceremony starts.”

“Got it,” Bruce nodded, standing up. Tiffany’s eyes stayed on him as he headed out of the building, but she didn’t say a word.

Not that he had expected her to. She knew well her boundaries when it came to him, and it wasn’t like her to attempt to breach any of them.

*

“—in his article titled “Horrors in Our Backyard,” Clark Kent of the _Daily Planet_ cited the cases of the Kitty Genovese, Raymond Zack, and Wang Yue,” Bruce read out. “Research done after Genovese’s case in the sixties should have taught all of us about our propensity to ignore the horrors that happen close to us, and that we should try harder to deny those instincts to reach out a helping hand to those that need it. However, the cases of Zack and Wang, both occurring in 2011, have proved that we hadn’t.”

Bruce paused. He looked up from the script laid out on the podium to face the crowd of reporters and their flashing cameras. “Perhaps Mister Kent has been too harsh on all of us,” he continued. “The horrors that these women and girls have gone through happened not in front of us but in the dark corners of both Gotham and Metropolis that could be so easily ignored. But an organisation has longer arms than an individual, and money has the longest arms of all.” He flashed a lopsided smile, cocking his head, and froze in that position so pictures could be taken. 

“That’s why Wayne Foundation has decided to dedicate itself to this cause. In Gotham, our arms are longest; that is undeniable. And those who are most frequently ignored and erased are those who need help the most.” He paused. Took a deep breath.

“Any questions?”

Hands shot up immediately, a particularly familiar one quicker than the rest. Bruce allowed the smile on his face to shift into a lazy smirk as he met Lois Lane’s eyes. He pointed towards her. “Yes?”

“Lois Lane, _Daily Planet_ ,” she introduced herself crisply. “Let’s not ignore the elephant in the room, Mister Wayne. Your organisation tramples upon everything that President Trump’s RAISE Act stands for, sir. Does that not make it an illegal organisation?” 

“Illegal is a terribly strong word,” Bruce drawled. When Lane raised her eyebrow at him, he glanced down at the script. Tiffany had predicted this question and written down the answer for him, but… Slowly, he raised the paper, folded it, and rested it below his elbows as he leaned forward on the podium.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tiffany minutely shaking her head. He ignored her.

“To put it frankly, Ms Lane, Six Swans is built on the core identity of America itself.” He spread out his hands. “We are a country of immigrants that had clawed itself up from a colony under the power of the British into a world superpower that exceeded everyone else. Given that, I believe that it’s positively _shameful_ for our government to pass an act that is built on a foundation of _fear_.”

He held up a hand to stall the questions he knew was coming. “I do not put down those who fear for their livelihoods because of the influx of immigrants. But the immigrants in Gotham and in California cannot be blamed for the loss of jobs in Michigan. All the RAISE act and its rhetoric does is to marginalise and blame one group of people for the problems that plague another, disparate community.”  
_  
_ “You’re being obscure, Mister Wayne,” Lane said, droll. “Will you clarify what you mean?”

Bruce gave an expansive shrug. “I’ll put it frankly, ladies and gentlemen: the RAISE act is created from nothing but xenophobia and cowardice, and I find it _disappointing_ of those who are wealthy and privileged – that our very _leaders_ – would selfishly look after only their own interests instead of trying to help those with less.”

Like throwing blood to a group of sharks, Bruce thought, amused as he watched the reporters surge forward, throwing their hands up as they shouted his name. Standing in the corner, Tiffany squeezed her eyes shut in despair.

“I agree with Mister Wayne, actually.”

The voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it _was_ resonant. Mostly because it came from an entirely unexpected place: up _above_ all of them. Bruce froze, his hands tightening on the edges of the podium as he watched that cape coloured bright, bright red slowly descend in front of him.

Superman wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t part of the _plan_.

“As I’m sure all of you have read from this morning’s edition of the _Planet_ ,” Superman said, voice light and pleasant, “the women and girls currently housed in the building behind us were brought here by myself and the members of my team. We acted without the consent of either the mayor or the police force of both Gotham and Metropolis.” He tipped his head to the side. “Should we not have saved them?”

He paused. “In the January of this year, my team and I acted against an agent from another world who wanted to destroy the Planet. We did so without the permission of any governing authority; we did not even inform them until afterwards. Should we have not done that, either?”

Slowly, Superman turned around. His feet, Bruce noticed a little dazedly, were hovering off the wooden boards of the makeshift stage. “What do you think, Mister Wayne?”

“In June last year,” Bruce heard his voice say, “the hot question debated by many was whether or not you should even exist, Superman.”

“It was,” Superman inclined his head. “Should there be a Superman? Should there be a Six Swans Organisation?” He turned away from Bruce towards the group of reporters. “The two questions are essentially the same. Should we allow the law to stop us from helping those who need it? To stop us from doing what’s right?"

“Without law,” Lane spoke up, seemingly the only person in the crowd who hadn’t been stunned into silence, “we live in a world of anarchy, Superman.”

“That’s a slippery slope,” Bruce pointed out. “And inaccurate, besides.”

“Please elaborate, Mister Wayne,” Superman murmured.

“Anarchy has been commonly stereotyped as complete lawlessness,” Bruce said, leaning fully on the podium now. His eyes, fixed on Superman, tried to ask him what he was _doing_ here. “But that is not true. Anarchy, as a political system, is based on law and freedom without force, in which humans are trusted to not need punishments in order to work morally.”

“Did he just quote EmmanuelKant?” one reporter whispered particularly loudly. Superman’s lips nearly twitched. __  
  
He rubbed a hand over his face when Superman’s gaze on him didn’t shift away; when it didn’t even change. “But that’s not what we’re advocating for, here,” he continued. “We’re advocating instead that laws be changed. We’re advocating for those in power to look once more at their position in the world; to realise the good that they can do if they look beyond their own fears to recognise those who need help.” 

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he shifted his gaze to Superman. “When you came into the picture two years ago, it was because there as an alien invasion.” He swallowed. “You could have continued to hide yourself away.”

“Yes,” Superman nodded.

“When you died last year, you did so fighting a monster. You could have chosen to not interfere.”

“I could have,” Superman agreed.

“Why did you?”

Superman turned back to face the reporters. He spread out his hands, making the cape flare out behind him. “The same reason why Wonder Woman, the Flash, Cyborg, Batman, and Aquaman had decided to face up that monster who came at the beginning of this year,” he said. “They threw themselves into danger because they knew they had more power.” He closed his eyes and smiled, soft at the corners. 

“Because we can. Because we want to.”

Bruce couldn’t speak. He tried to swallow.

“But none of us have the powers that you do,” Lane challenged. 

“We each act according to our levels of power,” Superman said, opening his eyes and cocking his head. His smile now was very remote, the blue of his eyes bright enough to glow in the late afternoon sunlight. “We do not expect people to start taking up weapons against monsters that come. We, as those with abilities, can barge into places with guns, knowing that we have ways to keep ourselves safe. But…”

He sighed, low and soft. “But none of us can do what Mister Wayne here does. None of us can do as much as America’s leaders, as the leader of the country. We can rescue, but we cannot heal.” He tilted his head back, motioning to the building behind him.

“Is that not what this is for? To help, to heal? To ensure that the inalienable rights of all people – life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness – are being upheld?”

Lane was grinning, Bruce realised. They had _planned_ this. Superman had told her that he would be here. Lane’s question had practically been a preamble for Superman’s entrance.

His knuckles were white around the podium, Bruce realised. He tried to relax them.

“I didn’t think you knew the American Constitution, Superman,” he said.

Superman shrugged easily. “I can quote the French Constitution as well,” he said. “Or the U.N.’s Declaration of Human Rights. I am, after all, a citizen of this Earth.” He tapped at one ear, and then the other. “Air has no borders. Neither does my hearing.”  
_  
Kal-El of Earth, without borders because your hearing picks up the sounds of suffering from every corner, and your heart goes out to every single one of them._ Bruce closed his eyes. How many times was Clark going to quote him right here, in public?

“Mister Wayne.”

Bruce opened his eyes to see that Superman was standing in front of him. Well, he glanced down briefly, not standing. Floating. Hovering. But in front of him, nonetheless, with one hand held out. Bruce blinked at it before he stuck out his own.

Then Superman— then _Clark_ bent his waist. Lowered his head. He swept out his cape so the rich red curled around the two of them like a frame as he brought Bruce’s hand upwards. He did not shake it. He…

Did this goddamned farmboy just kiss the back of his hand like— like he was some kind of gentleman from black and white movies and Bruce was a lady from the same time period?!

Bruce was trying to not gape. But his ears felt hot, flushed somehow, and he couldn’t even hide them because the cameras were already flashing. A part of him took note of the bright sun ahead and the newly-painted building behind him; of the cape teasing at his ankles. The shots, he knew, would be very good. Practically out of the movies.

What the _fuck_.

“Thank you, Mister Wayne,” Superman said, his voice so resonant now that it had to be deliberate. “All that you have done are things even those with metahuman abilities cannot do.” He straightened. His hand remained on Bruce’s, thumb very slowly stroking over his knuckles.

“You are truly a role model for the influential and powerful in the world to follow.” 

“Uh,” Bruce said, very intelligently.

Clark— not Superman but _Clark_ , the little _shit_ , turned his head and grinned at him, boyishly wide and eyes glittering so brightly blue that Bruce’s breath was knocked right out of his chest. He stumbled backwards when Clark finally let go of his hand, and he was gripping onto the podium, trying stay upright.

There was a very distant screaming in his head. It sounded like his own voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clark nodded at the reporters. “There is an emergency. I must take my leave.”

Emergency. Bruce watched as Clark took back up into the sky. Like _hell_ it was an emergency. He was just— he was—

“Excuse me,” he heard his own voice say. He barely managed to nod towards the reporters before he was practically stumbling into the building, ignoring their shouted questions.

He slammed the glass doors closed behind him and crab-walked over to the side until he was hidden from the cameras with his back against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm down his heartrate that was racing ridiculously fast. But every breath seemed to shudder out of him, unwilling to smooth out, much less calm, and he—

“Am I to assume, Master Wayne,” Alfred’s voice piped up in his ear, speaking for the first time into the communicator that Bruce had left on, “that you and Mister Kent have patched things up?”

Bruce slowly slid down to sit on the floor. His head smacked against the wall. “I don’t know,” he said, voice so hoarse that he could barely recognise it. “I don’t— Alfred, _I don’t know what just happened._ ”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, and Bruce was nearly gratified to hear the concern in his voice. “Are you—”

“I don’t know,” Bruce interrupted him. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He was breathing far too quickly and his head was spinning and he was… Why did Clark do that? Why did he— in front of all of the reporters, practically declaring his intention, stating that Bruce was a _role model_ —

His head hit his knees. He tried again to even out his breathing. In his ear, Alfred mercifully remained silent.

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how long he stayed there. It must be at least half an hour because he eventually heard Tiffany’s heels clacking as she stepped up next to him.

“You know,” Tiffany said, “when you mentioned that the superhero team might become a symbol for you to use for Six Swans… I didn’t expect this.” 

A nearly-silent laugh rasped out of Bruce’s throat. He smacked the back of his head against the wall. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Neither did I.” 

“You okay?”

 _No_. Bruce took another deep breath. He pushed his hands against the floor and got back to his feet. “I’m fine.” He ignored her sceptical look. Even if he wasn’t, he would be. He had to be. And that was what mattered.

“So, how do you think the press conference went?”

Tiffany shook her head. “Oh God,” she sighed. “Where do I even _start?_ ”

***

Scorch marks from Cyborg’s energy cannons streaked all over the bare concrete walls. The spaces in between were pockmarked by bullets that had ricocheted from Wonder Woman’s bracelets. Traces of the Gotham Bat could be found buried in the bodies of the groaning men at their feet – batarangs buried in their shoulders and ties, garotte wires coiled loosely around their necks, and vividly-blooming bruises from steel-enforced knuckles.

The raid on the bratva’s Atlanta headquarters had taken less than half an hour. The Bat knew for a fact that the bratva would take less than a month – if that – before they recovered, no matter who they caught here. Criminals like these were like rats; taking a few out wouldn’t get rid of the infestation, especially since none of the victims were here.

But the aftermath would make for some good pictures, and that was the point of it. This was just part of the show; the real work all happened behind the scenes.

As Cyborg headed over to the computers, the Bat turned his attention away from the scene.  
Even though he had heard a few men calling for backup just now as the raid was ongoing, the streets outside were silent. The bratva members knew that their headquarters had gone down and were keeping away. Most likely packing up their operations and going underground to weather the incoming storm.

In his ear, the police radio he was connected to reported a traffic accident that had occurred on the other side of the city – despite having very little outside of their reputation to work with, the Atlanta police seemed to have heeded Cyborg’s warnings to keep away from this area of the city. Likely because they had heard of Cyborg’s abilities and were hoping that his technological skills could be used to gather evidence to put at least a few members of the bratva away for good. 

The Bat switched the channel in his earpiece from the radio to the makeshift communication channel that he had made for the team. “Atlanta headquarters has been neutralised,” he reported. “What about on your side?”

“Uh…” The Flash’s voice came over, tinny and shuddering because even the most powerful of microphones didn’t work very well within the speed force. “I’ve found some stuff that might be pretty useful, I think? Aquaman is still dealing with some bratva members, and…” A sudden loud roar of moving air and snapping electricity before the earpiece’s volume control kicked in. Unfortunately, that was when the Flash spoke again.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeated, “Superman is outside, dealing with some Russian authorities.” He paused. “I don’t think that they’re actually the police.”

“Probably the FSB,” the Bat replied, recalling something he had read from the Wikileaks scandal a few years ago. “Russia’s intelligence service. Is one of Cyborg’s devices around Superman?”

Another deafening roar of air and electricity. The Bat tapped impatiently at his gauntlet, adjusting the volume manually. He was just in time to catch the Flash saying, “Yeah. He’s still got it stuck to that big red S of his.”

Throughout the conversation, Wonder Woman had been walking through the rows of downed men, eyes narrowed as she peered at their faces. Her boots clicked even louder now, heralding her impatience. The Bat glanced at her for a moment. “I’m hanging up now,” he told the Flash. “We’ll check in in another fifteen to thirty minutes.”

“Got it,” the Flash said. The Bat switched his earpiece back to the police radio for some white noise – and to know in advance if any officer decided to go against their warning. But he didn’t approach her, simply staying there because he knew who she was looking for.

“You know, the evidence is probably here,” Cyborg said, casting his red, glowing eye over to Wonder Woman. “I’m closing in on the gold mine already.”

“I’m old fashioned,” Wonder Woman shrugged. The golden lasso in her hand trailed loosely over the men’s bodies. The Bat slipped another batarang out of his belt, toying with its sharp edges. Men like those didn’t admit defeat so easily, and the way they were all staying down so quietly raised the hairs on the back of his neck in suspicion.

“Shell companies, corporate bank accounts, accounts in Swiss banks…” Cyborg’s murmur was a rhythmic counterpoint to Wonder Woman’s footsteps. “Ownership records of nightclubs, bars, several different properties… wow, they’re all over America. There’s a whole bunch even in New York City.” His red eye flicked over to Wonder Woman. “This is fucking impressive, seriously.”

One particular man twitched. In a flash almost too quick for the human eye to see, Wonder Woman darted forward. Her hand closed around the man’s collar, dragging him up to his feet. He didn’t move, eyes steady on her and lips curling up into a smirk as she wrapped her lasso around him.

Behind Wonder Woman, Cyborg spread out a hand. He didn’t even turn away from the scrolling screens in front of him as he flicked a tiny, glowing ball of metal in Wonder Woman’s direction. Wonder Woman caught the recording device, resting it on top of her collarbone as she tightened the lasso around the man she had caught.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mikhail Odenussa,” the man said, and immediately clicked his mouth shut. His eyes widened.

Well, they didn’t need him here right now. The Bat turned around, heading out of the main headquarters of the Atlanta branch of the Solntsevskaya bratva into the streets of the city. He tapped at his gauntlet to switch his earpiece to the communications channel again.

“How is it going?”

“Moscow headquarters have been cleaned out,” Aquaman replied, his voice a deep, rasping growl and words broken up slightly by his panting. “Flash is neck-deep in some files right now, I haven’t a clue what he’s finding but he’s grinning like a crazy person so I guess it’s useful shit.” There was a dull _clang_ of metal against wood, as if Aquaman had slammed his giant pitchfork onto the ground. 

“Superman’s still dealing with the Russians,” Aquaman continued. “Think that they’re giving him some trouble. I have no fucking clue; I can’t understand what they’re saying.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea that the only two people who were fluent in Russian were sent here to Atlanta instead, the Bat thought. Superman apparently had some handle on the language – “enough for ten minutes of conversation and to get out of trouble with the police,” he had said – and Aquaman had said he knew a little bit because “you can’t hang out up north like I do and not pick up some of it.” But their level of knowledge was clearly insufficient if Superman hadn’t managed to chase the FSB away yet.

Honestly, the Bat should be there. However, only Wonder Woman and Aquaman could withstand travelling within the speed force or at near-light speed without risking their lives – not even Cyborg’s armour was strong enough, made from motherbox and improved by Silas Stone though it was – and Wonder Woman in Russia, the country that made America’s treatment of women resemble that of Themyscira itself by comparison, was a nightmare that not even she would want to deal with.

Hence the current arrangement. Still, the Bat made a mental note to search harder for a material that he could use for protective gear. He would really rather not have Superman thrown to wolves that he couldn’t communicate properly with.

At least they didn’t have Kryptonite. At least they didn’t have any other way than words to try to get Superman to leave.

“I’ll patch over,” the Bat said. “Go help Flash find whatever the evidence he needs.”

“You know,” Aquaman said. “I did some Googling myself. So, apparently, Putin gave the leader of the bratva here in Moscow a goddamned wristwatch as a presidential present. If the government and organised crime are so deep in each other’s pockets, what the hell would all of this do?”

The Bat couldn’t blame him for the question. It did seem a pretty impossible hurdle to cross when the official authorities sanctioned crime instead of condemning it like they should. Especially when neither Aquaman nor the Flash had made any mention about finding any victims in the vicinity of the headquarters, and there hadn’t been any at the Atlanta side either. 

“Embarrass the hell out of them with public exposure of information,” he sighed. “Raise a fuss with the UN. Hope that’s enough to make Putin and his government do something beyond lip service.” 

“Seriously?” Aquaman asked, sounding incredulous. “You think _that’d_ work?”

“No,” the Bat replied shortly. “But it’s the best bet that we have right now, because the alternative is to try to commit mass murder of organised crime members, and that’ll only result in the next batch of them rising being smarter.” Then, before Aquaman could even think of a reply, he continued, “I’m switching over.”

Technically, the Bat thought as he pressed buttons on his gauntlet, it was less of switching than to open up a direct communications channel with Superman. Still, the term he used was pretty accurate: there was no doubt that Superman had heard everything, but he hadn’t said a word. Though, given that he was apparently negotiating with Russian intelligence, the Bat probably shouldn’t expect anything.

A quiet _beep_ came over his earpiece. Then: 

“In Russia, we have our own methods of doing things, Superman _,_ ” a deep voice was saying in Moscow-accented Russian. “Though we appreciate the help of you and your friends, we will kindly ask again for you to leave our country.”

Well, at least they were still attempting to be polite. Though the Bat suspected that the effort was lost on Superman, because his Russian really wasn’t that great.

“Listen and then repeat after me _exactly_ , Superman,” the Bat said in English. Then he took a breath and said in Russian: “Sir, you imply that your country’s sovereignty over its affairs should hold, and I do not disagree with that. However, the workings of this particular organisation have harmed people of many other nations outside of your own. The air does not draw borders; it does not refuse to carry the screams of those suffering just because they are harmed by those in your country.” He paused, and then switched back to English: “Say that first.”

Luckily, Superman didn’t protest. His pronunciation wasn’t even half-bad either, given that the Bat had only said it once. 

“We are here to help,” the Bat continued in Russian once Superman had finished. “We will gladly give you the evidence and information that we find such that you can use them to persecute the leaders of the organisation. So that I will no longer hear the cries of suffering.”

There was a short silence. “You will hand over the evidence to us?” the Russian agent asked.

“I cannot answer that,” the Bat said, “unless you show me some proof of your identity, sir.” He waited until Superman had repeated those words before he continued, “Please do not take offence. It is common enough for criminals to pretend to be someone in your position.”

It would truly be very surprising if the Russians immediately obeyed, even if it was Superman speaking to them. So, the Bat took the chance to quickly explain in English, “WikiLeaks has already made the FSB’s involvement with the Solntsevskaya bratva public a few years ago, but Putin still publicly denies it. You need to get them to show you their identification clearly enough that it shows up on camera. Kremlin can still deny it, but it’ll ring falser. Plus, they’ll then have to explain how supposed bratva members can get a hold of FSB identification.”

Superman didn’t respond – he couldn’t, not while he was literally standing in front of the people the Bat was plotting against – but the Bat hoped that he was convinced anyway.

Just then, the Flash’s voice came over the communications: “I think I’ve cleared out as much as I could,” he said, sounding just a little breathless. “Uploading it all to Vic, now.”

“Codenames over the comms,” Cyborg said, sounding amused. “You don’t know who might try to hack us.”

“We have our own satellite,” Aquaman pointed out. “Kind of. Is it a hackable satellite, Bat?”

Before the Bat could respond, Superman said, “Thank you, sir.” His Russian was definitely _not_ from Moscow; the accent was from far further east, closer to Siberia than anything else. What had Superman been doing in that remote area for long enough to pick up Russian from _there_? The Bat could only recognise it because he had once tracked down some members of a mafiya group that had dealings in that rural part of the country.

He brushed that thought away for consideration later. “Please rest assured,” he continued, shifting the Moscow accent slightly east – not as east as Superman’s, but close enough that it could be believed that his Russian was learned through exposure to people from various areas of the country. “My actions, and those of my comrades’, are and will always be public. None of what we have found will be hidden from you.”

Taking a deep breath, the Bat continued, snapping to all three of them in Moscow: “Get out of there. _Now_.”

Luckily, none of them protested – most likely because they could guess what he had just make Superman do even if they didn’t understand the language – and there was a series of shuffling noises and clicking metal before everything was drowned out by the roar of air that heralded Superman’s exit from the scene.

The Bat turned, making to head back inside the Atlanta headquarters. Before he could reach the door, however, Superman’s voice came over his earpiece again: “Technically, I wasn’t lying.”

“You’re acting according to their assumptions,” the Bat said. “Did they pull their guns on you?”

“They did,” Superman said, sounding unreasonably pleased by the fact. “I caught that on camera, too.” 

“Oy,” Aquaman’s voice came over. “Can the two of you- you two—“ he was, the Bat noticed, speaking through chattering teeth, “—flirt when I’m not stuck up the _fucking stratosphere_?”

“Oops,” Superman said, sounding both chagrined and unrepentant about that. “Sorry about that, water emoji.”

The Flash cracked up laughing, loud enough to be heard through the constant hiss of electricity that was his trademark whenever he was in the speed force. When Aquaman snarled at him, the sound faint and broken up – because Superman was likely moving at mach speed at least while carrying him – the Flash just laughed even harder.

“ _Children_ ,” Wonder Woman said, stepping out of the door. Her lasso was slung over her shoulder, and she gave the Bat a wide grin. “We have a full confession on tape.”

“Not to mention _all_ of their records,” Cyborg picked up the thread as he followed behind Wonder Woman. “Deeds of a whole bunch of legitimate organisations they most likely use for money laundering, deals they have made with the Colombian cartels with regards to drugs – enough cocaine to drown a man – lists of names of their members and the freelance assassins…” His red eye glowed brightly. 

Making a show of checking his watch, the Bat headed back for the car that would take them back towards where the Flying Fox was parked at the edge of the city. “It’s near the time when Reuters and Associated Press would be posting up their data,” he said. “Go ahead. Hit the Internet.”

As he flung himself into the backseat – the car was new, and specifically assembled for the times in which the Bat had to transport more people than just himself – Cyborg rubbed his hands together. He resembled a movie villain on the cusp of succeeding in his plan to kill the hero in painfully over-elaborate ways. “I _love_ this part,” he proclaimed.

Wonder Woman threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing in the car as the Bat kicked the engine into ignition.

“Wait,” Cyborg said suddenly. “What do we sign off as?” He paused. “That’s a question for everyone, by the way?”

“Huh?” Aquaman’s voice came over their earpiece. “The hell do you mean? We all have names, just use those.”

“It’s very clunky to sign off as this entire list of names,” Cyborg explained. “And I’m not uploading all this to have people’s eyes glaze over even before they click on a single link.”

“Justice League,” the Flash piped up suddenly.

The Bat blinked. In the dashboard, he could see Wonder Woman doing exactly the same thing. “That’s…” she said, chewing her lip in obvious contemplation. “It sounds good, Flash, but where did it come from?”

“Something that Superman said during the whole Steppenwolf thing,” the Flash continued. There was no crackle of electricity in the background, the Bat noted; he must have reached the headquarters already, then. “I wasn’t there, but V- Cyborg told me about it. Like, everyone was losing pretty badly against Ugly Villain with German Name, and then Superman just _appeared_ with this one-liner that sounds like it came straight out of James Bond’s mouth.”

“Uh,” Superman said. “I don’t remember quoting James Bond?”

“Well, I believe in truth,” the Flash deepened his voice, clearly trying to imitate Superman’s baritone. “But I’m also a big fan of _justice_.” He paused. “Justice League!”

“Did I really sound like that?” Superman asked, sounding mystified and more than slightly embarrassed.

“You sounded _cool_ ,” the Flash told him. “Like, you still can’t hold a conversation properly, but you’re really good with the speeches and the one-liners!”

“Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment! So, you’re welcome!” 

He was driving, the Bat told himself. It wouldn’t do for him to slap his hand over his face right now.

“That is the fucking corniest name I have ever heard,” Aquaman said. “Sure, let’s go with it.”

“Why did you insult it and then agree with it?” the Flash asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“’Cause we’re corny as hell as a group,” Aquaman pointed out. “We’re a bunch of people with special abilities who are banding together to save the world. We just need a chant and someone with a useless power like ‘heart’ or something, and then we’ll come straight out of the Captain Planet cartoon.” The Bat didn’t even need to see him to know that he was shrugging. “Might as well just own the corniness.”

“You know,” Cyborg said. “He actually has a point.”

“I think it’s a good name,” Wonder Woman said. “Aquaman might have termed it corny, but he used children’s cartoons as a comparison, didn’t he? Children’s cartoons show an idealised world, one that we all wish existed. Is that not why we’re working together? To make such a world into reality?” 

She ducked her head down, the sides of her eyes creasing with her smile. “I will be proud to call myself a part of the Justice League.” 

There was a pause. Then Cyborg chuckled. “I’m recording that as our explanation if we’re ever asked about the name, Diana. That’s more eloquent than anyone else can make it sound.”

The Bat had to agree with that. 

“Any objections?” Cyborg asked.

“Well, I can’t exactly object since the Flash is quoting me, can I?” Superman asked, sounding slightly amused. “Though it _does_ sound good.”

Silence. They were all waiting on _him_ , the Bat realised. He sighed. “I’ll inform the head of Wayne Enterprise’s public relations once we reach the jet,” he said. Behind him, Cyborg nodded. His one flesh-and-blood eye turned distant as he focused inward on uploading the information they had just gathered.

“Oh, speaking of that,” Aquaman spoke up suddenly. “I need to check: do I share a sugar daddy with you guys, or am I just leeching off Superman’s here?”

“What?” That, the Bat realised, was not only his own voice. That was the Flash’s too.

“Look, you two put on a hell of a show this afternoon, okay?” Aquaman said, having the nerve to sound _impatient_ about the need to explain himself. “So, I’m just curious about the official story here. Is our sponsor doing his sponsoring thing because of Superman, or are we all part of his harem now?”

“You would make for a terrible concubine,” the Bat said. Then he wished he hadn’t spoken, because Aquaman was bursting into laughter. 

“Thanks,” he said. “I find that to be a compliment.”

“That wasn’t— I wasn’t—” Superman didn’t sound like Superman, now; that was entirely _Clark’s_ Midwestern accent creeping in instead of Superman’s more remote and neutral-sounding English. “That was just a show of _appreciation_!”

“It was?” Okay, there went the Bat. He should really come back, however, because _Bruce_ needed to shut the hell up.

Deafening silence. Behind him, Wonder Woman and Cyborg— ah, fuck it— Diana and Victor were looking at him. The former had her eyebrow raised.  
_  
_ “Well, I was, uh,” Clark sputtered. “Look, it wasn’t, uh, I was just trying to—”

“He’s _blushing_ ,” Barry announced to the group. “Just thought, you know. Bat will like to know right now.”

“I was just trying to— it wasn’t—”

“Give up already,” Arthur advised. “None of us will believe you.”

“Twitter won’t believe you, either,” Victor chimed in. “I think there is already fanart. I don’t know for sure and I don’t want to check, but, you know, there’s probably fanart. Or, well, there will be some once more time has passed.”

Honestly, Bruce wouldn’t be surprised if there already was something. He shoved away the memories of Dick once showing him something horribly scarring involving both the Bat and Bruce Wayne before they could surface.

Diana had her face in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. She seemed to be laughing so hard that it was impossible for her make a single sound.

“Can I, like, get an answer to my question?” Arthur asked. “If I’m sharing a sugar daddy, I want to call in for the benefits.”

“You haven’t done anything to actually earn any benefits,” Bruce pointed out, because there was really nothing else for him to say.

“Please don’t have sex with him,” Clark said, sounding vaguely panicked. 

Deafening silence again. Under the cowl, Bruce’s eyebrow twitched.Behind him, Diana slid off the seat straight onto the floor, her arms wrapped around her stomach.

“Superman,” Bruce said, trying his best to remain calm and not give into the urge to slam his head repeatedly into the steering wheel. “Just… just shut up.”

“Oh,” Clark said. “Okay. Sorry.”

He should _not_ , Bruce thought irritably, sound like a puppy being kicked.

“You made Superman sad,” Barry accused. “That is… that is just _wrong_.”

Before Bruce could even reply, Arthur interrupted again, “Answer my fucking question, goddammit.”

Gritting his teeth, Bruce hissed out his breath. “The sponsorship is purely for League activities,” he said. “As Superman had said, his gesture was purely a form of appreciation.” Though for _what_ , and why he chose that method, Bruce really had no idea, and he would prefer to not think too much about it while he was still surrounded by members of his team. “So, no, Aquaman, you don’t get free stuff.”

“Damn,” Arthur said. He didn’t sound too disappointed. “So, Wonder Woman,” he continued. “Like I said, you’re gorgeous. Can I show you some _appreciation,_ ” Bruce could _hear_ him waggle his eyebrows; he didn’t know how, but he actually _could_ , “for the great work you just did?” 

Diana coughed, just once. “If Superman and Batman are not allowed to flirt on the comms, Aquaman,” she said, sounding remarkably calm for someone who was in convulsive laughter just moments before, “then neither are you.”

“That wasn’t flirting, by the way,” Clark interrupted suddenly. “That was just… a conversation?”

Hadn’t Bruce just told him to _stop talking_?

“This is the third time I’ve said this,” Barry said, sounding very contemplative, “but, dammit, Superman, you actually need to have conversations with people if you think _that_ was a conversation.” He paused. “I can practically see question marks on his face. _How_ do I see question marks on his face?”

“Magic,” Victor intoned flatly. “By the way, everything’s uploaded now. I should be on Twitter to check for initial reactions, but quite honestly, I’m scared of what I’m going to find there.” He paused. “Just so you guys know, you already have a ship name. I don’t want to say it out loud, but, uh, one exists.”

“How do you know this shit?” Arthur asked.

“I’m connected to the Internet all the time and I set up notifications for each of our names,” he said. “All of our names.” He paused. “Maybe next time you guys decide to do something like that, warn me first? So I can turn off my notifications?”

“Understood, sorry,” Clark said. At the same time, Bruce said, “It won’t happen again.”

Deafening silence for the third time. Bruce gripped tightly on the steering wheel so he wouldn’t give into the returning urge to slam his head against it. Instead, he reached for the one last option he had left to return sanity to the situation: he caught Diana’s eyes in the dashboard mirror and tried to send her a telepathic message.

 _You’re the team leader. Do something about these people_.

Diana might not have any power to read minds, but she clearly caught his meaning, because she raised an eyebrow. “This network is for official communications, Justice League,” she said. “Let’s quit this.” She paused. When she continued, her voice was softer, but very clearly laced with amusement: “Give them time to figure this out. They clearly require it.”

That was not what Bruce had expected. Or wanted. But, at this point, he would honestly take anything he could get.

“They need to _talk_ ,” Barry said in a voice he very obviously thought to be sage-like and wise. “Got it.”

Bruce would. Take anything. He could get.

“Let’s keep radio silence until we are all at headquarters,” Diana said. “ _And_ a moratorium on this topic. And yes, Aquaman, you know exactly the topic I mean.” 

“I’m not the only one having fun,” Arthur pointed out. “But fine.” Bruce tried to feel gratified that he sounded like a child, but it was hard to when he knew that he now owed Diana a favour that he wasn’t sure how to repay. Or if he even could.

Shifting his hands on the steering wheel, Bruce tapped on his gauntlet without looking at it. He switched off his microphone. He would do the same to his earpiece, too, except that he suspected that it would just be an invitation to disobey Diana.

There was a blessed silence until they exited the main areas of Atlanta and into the suburbs where Bruce had parked the Flying Fox. Then Victor spoke: “Do you want to know what Twitter is saying?”

Bruce should know. Information was useful and knowledge was power. And keeping up with Bruce Wayne’s public image had always been a necessity.

“No,” he sighed heavily He kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t.”

Eventually he would deal with it. Just… not now. Not _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce in this chapter: ben-affleck-smoking-meme.jpeg 
> 
> “Mad people have only one story that they talk over and over” is from Maxine Hong Kingston’s _The Woman Warrior_.
> 
> The story about Putin giving a wristwatch to the head of the Moscow branch of the SoIntsevskaya bratva is [real](https://www.rferl.org/a/russia-mobster-mikhailov-putin-wristwatch/26613480.html). Honestly, a person can spend their entire life researching on the very unique relationship Putin’s government has with the Russian mafiya. (Mostly because they would most likely be purged while doing it. That’s not a joke, by the way.) 
> 
> Also, I’m currently all of one chapter ahead and work and life stuff have me really, really low on both spoons and motivation. I’m hoping to not have to stall the last few chapters, but this is just an advance warning in case I have to. (Comments will help, too, but they always do and are not an obligation!)


	13. choosing (the furniture)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce attempt to communicate alone, face-to-face, and without pretences. Nightwing raises some complaints to the Bat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Nothing. Seriously, _nothing_! (Except maybe that it’s a slow chapter, if that’s something to be warned for.)

The glaring green of the tarp was gone. Now, it was the rough edges of the grey concrete covering the bricks and the taped-up glass windows that caught the moon’s dim light. Below, the solar panels fitted over the metal doors of the underground hangar peeked out from beneath the soil scattered on top of it. 

Clark landed gently on the rooftop’s edge, right on top of the very first steel beam he had set into the ground himself. The metal seemed to call out in greeting as he folded his legs and sat down, staring out towards Metropolis. A few moments later, the hinges of the stairwell door squeaked – a sound too quiet for human hearing but which could not escape his – to herald footsteps approaching.

“I still can’t believe that we’re done here,” Clark said. He had caught a glance of their headquarters a few hours ago, when the team – the _Justice League_ , he reminded himself; he had to get used to the name – had met up before the raids. But there hadn’t been time to look properly, then.

“Not quite,” Bruce said, stepping up next to him. His cape swept over the rain gutters, the oily black immediately stained with grey. “There’s still work to be done.”

Well, Clark had to admit that to be true: the building still needed to be painted, and the inside was entirely empty. Furniture and equipment needed to be moved in, and security measures had to be set up; that would take a day or two, at the very least. Clark would help with that; it was as much part of his list as was reading through the information that Victor and Barry had gathered during their raids. That was for later, however; now… 

They weren’t only just talking about the building, were they?

“The others have done a great deal over the past few days,” he said, eyes still fixed on the bright gleaming city in the distance. Despite the damage that it had gone through, despite the signs of construction spotting the corners, Metropolis’s spirit burnt brightly. “They’ve been pretty amazing.”

“Mm,” Bruce nodded. There was a trace of lightness in his voice, something akin to humour as he continued, “They built on the foundations that you helped to put in.”

“You drew up the blueprints,” Clark pointed out softly. “All of us have only been following your lead. Especially me.”

Bruce shook his head, but he didn’t reply. Clark chanced a glance to the side. Bruce’s eyes were fixed in the other direction – towards the much darker Gotham, the city’s shadows seeming to loom even over the vast distance that separated it from Clark – but his body was turned towards Clark. That might be another metaphor; one that Clark didn’t like. 

Floating upwards, Clark unfolded his legs and reached out. His fingertips brushed over Bruce’s jaw, right over the edge where the cowl stopped and skin began. He heard the rattle of air in Bruce’s chest, heard neurons firing in Bruce’s brain as he registered and tried to process the touch. 

“Just following your lead,” Clark repeated, meeting Bruce’s dark, dark eyes as they turned towards him.

“There are no blueprints for this,” Bruce said, voice so low that his modulator couldn’t even pick it up. “How are you following when—” He took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Clark, do you even know—”

“I don’t,” Clark interrupted him. He watched his own thumb as it trailed over the line of Bruce’s stubble; felt the rough hairs as they bent against the pressure of the touch. “I’m trying to learn from you. I’m trying to— you’ve seen so much of me. Every part of me. And you’ve…” _saved me_ , he wanted to say, but that wasn’t—

That couldn’t be right. Even when they were at the docks, with Clark’s mind blank and his hands trembling incessantly, Bruce hadn’t saved him. He had done something that Clark couldn’t put into words; something that led to his heartbeat and breathing twining around Clark, settling the ground beneath his feet even now.

His other hand reached out blindly, finding and grasping onto Bruce’s fingers and sliding his own between them. “I know what I want,” Clark heard himself say. “But I don’t know how to have it. How to hold it.” He swallowed at the heat he could feel even through the leather of the Bat’s gauntlet; bit down on the inside of his cheek as Bruce’s fingers tightened around his own.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” He would be surprised if Bruce did, because Clark was _definitely_ unsure about himself right now.

“Clark,” Bruce breathed out. His head tilted to the side, breath skittering from Clark’s lips to his jaw. Clark could hear the flutter of his lashes as his eyes closed behind the cowl. “I don’t understand. What do you _want_?”

Closing his eyes, Clark shuddered. “You,” he gritted out. “Every part of you.” Bruce’s nail digging into his palm, the pressure sharp despite the leather separating their skins. “But I don’t know how. I don’t—” 

“Six Swans’s opening ceremony,” Bruce interrupted him. His other hand rose, fingers curving around Clark’s shoulder, the tips so terribly close to his neck that Clark was afraid that Bruce could feel how fast and hard his pulse was thundering. “All that you said… all that you did… Why?” Air shuddered out of him. 

“I can guess, but I don’t want to. I need you to tell me.”

 _But it should be obvious_ , Clark wanted to say. _But I’ve already told everyone_ , he wanted to protest. Both were true, weren’t they? He had even made the effort to echo Bruce’s words exactly during his speech, and just now, barely an hour earlier, he had stated outright that the kiss was a form of appreciation.

Still, Clark knew that those weren’t the real answers; that Bruce deserved an explanation. If only because Bruce Wayne couldn’t fly away from reporters hounding him with questions the same way that Superman could.

“I…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Clark,” Bruce murmured. “You came to me over and over even as you showed me that you hated everything I stood for.” The hand on Clark’s neck shifted to cup his jaw, keeping Clark’s face to his and refusing to let him look away. Clark bit his lip. 

“You touched my face to send me a message,” Bruce continued. “Twice, you turned to me when you panicked, focusing on parts of my body to centre yourself again. But you ran away when I invited you into my life. You let me kneel in front of a back alley to taste you, and you kissed my hand in front of the world. Now, you touch me like this.” His eyes darted down to their still-joined hands.

“Make me understand,” Bruce urged. “I need to understand. Please.” His thumb ran over the curve of Clark’s cheekbones. “For me.”

 _Not fair_ , Clark thought wildly. Bruce knew all of his weak spots; knew how to reach inside, sinking his hands beyond Clark’s ribs to wrap around his heart to tug at the strings within. Bruce could do that while Clark couldn’t even—

That wasn’t true. Clark had been listening, after he flew away and left Bruce there with the reporters. He had heard the rushing storm of Bruce’s heart; had Bruce’s shallow panting echo in his ears. He remembered, too, that morning when he left. The _thump-thump-thump_ of Bruce’s fists hitting the punching bag that had been engraved into the insides of his eyes.

He had to try. __  
  
“The first time you knew of me, I destroyed your building and caused the deaths of your employees,” Clark started. He swallowed, barely managing to shake his head. When Bruce nodded, Clark took a deep, steadying breath and forced himself to continue. “When we met, I made you crash your car, and tried to take away everything you had spent your life building. From the start, you saw the worst of me.”

Looking down, he curled his fingers around Bruce’s, running his thumb over the knuckles. “But you still saved my mother. You brought me back to life. You gave me my life back. Then, when I was—” he had to say it, had to admit it, because it was true, “When I was petty and selfish and lashing out at you for everything, you still helped me.”

“You forgot one thing, Clark,” Bruce said. His lips were curved up into a crooked smile, head tilted as he ran his knuckles over Clark’s jaw. “You saw the worst of me, too; far worse than anything you have ever done to me. I tried to kill you, remember? And I succeeded.”

 _What?_ Clark blinked. “That’s not true,” he blurted out. “It was Luthor and his monster that killed me.”

“The spear you used to take down that monster was the same one I made to kill you,” Bruce told him, voice irritatingly matter-of-fact.

“Doesn’t mean that you killed me,” Clark said, dry despite himself. “Last I remember, I was the one who picked up the spear myself. _And_ it wasn’t the spear that pierced through my chest, remember? It was that monster’s spike.”

“Luthor wouldn’t even have succeeded in making that monster if I had tried harder to stop him,” Bruce said. “I should have—”

Clark rolled his eyes. “Shut up,” he said, tugging Bruce forward. As he stared deeply into those dark eyes, he let himself smile slightly. “Are you going to tell me again that you’re doing all this because you feel guilty?” He arched an eyebrow. “That you’re _letting_ me touch you like that because you think it’s a way to pay me back for all the harms you’ve done to me?”

Bruce’s eyes went very wide. “What?” He tried to pull away, but Clark wrapped a firm arm around his waist and pulled him in even more. “That’s— that’s not— Don’t make yourself sound like that!”

Cocking his head to the side, Clark shrugged. “I know it’s not true,” he said. He had figured that Bruce wanted him from that moment when Bruce had told him that he had bought a bank. “You’re very practiced at lying, Bruce, but…” He lifted his shoulder high enough that it brushed a earlobe. “Natural lie detector.”

 _I was trying to repay a mistake, that’s all_. _It’s like a reflex for me, I don’t know_. Even if Clark couldn’t hear the trips of Bruce’s heartbeat during those moments, he would’ve figured him to be lying eventually. Bruce rarely, if ever, hedged about anything, but he had practically been stuttering, then. He had even _literally_ stuttered when Clark had stated that Bruce didn’t like him.

He had always known. The knowledge had been like a burr stuck to the back of his mind, scraping bitter over his tongue and throat. He just didn’t…

“If you knew, then…” Bruce stopped. He let out a huff of breath that was almost a laugh and shook his head. “You know, I told Alfred once that you’re more human than I am.”

“Eh?” Clark blinked. How could Bruce even think that—

“You had a job. You fell in love,” Bruce told him, giving him that lopsided smile again. “All that power, and you still did what a normal human did.” His knuckles brushed over Clark’s cheek again, this time so close to his mouth that Clark’s breath tripped in his throat and he couldn’t speak even if he’d found the words to say. “But now… I have even more reasons to believe that.”

“Really?”

“Mm,” Bruce nodded. “You shy away from your own faults. You refuse to admit things that make you uncomfortable.” The words should sound like blame, but as Bruce’s eyes focused back on him, the creases on the sides curved upwards, and every phrase became a tug within that seemed to unravel knots Clark had never realised existed. “You assume things without proof. You act in ways that are obviously illogical. You make mistakes.”

Bruce’s hand dropped to his side. A few quiet beeps, and then he was pulling off the cowl. The military eye-black made the hazel of his eyes glow brilliantly in the moon’s light.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce reached out again. With both hands cupping Clark’s face, he breathed his next words out over Clark’s lips: “All that power, and you still falter. All that power, and you are not perfect.” 

“Shouldn’t I be?” Clark whispered. That was what he had been told; that was what he had always believed.

“What use is a god for inspiration when humans will hold on to the excuse that, as a god, they are perfect, and thus their heights could never be reached?” Bruce asked, his forehead touching Clark’s. “Your flaws make you human, Clark. Because if even you, with all of your power, still have to try… then what more the rest of us?”

 _Oh_. “I have… I’ve never seen it that way,” Clark said. His voice sounded dull even through the low buzz starting up in his head. __  
  
“Jesus had his Gethsemane,” Bruce said, voice matter-of-fact. “What more you?” His still-gloved fingertips skimmed over Clark’s hairline. “You, who are called a god for your powers, but who have suffered far more than you have gained because of them?”

 _That’s not true_ , Clark wanted to tell him. He had gained plenty with his powers, surely. Hadn’t Arthur said it, that Clark would never have to worry about having enough money to buy food because he simply didn’t need to eat if he couldn’t afford it? But— but there was another side to that, wasn’t there? He might not need to eat, but he wanted to. It made him feel better when he did, and…

And it meant something, didn’t it, that he still knew what it meant to not be able to _afford_ to do it?

“I can say the same about you,” Clark murmured in return. “Without Peter, the Church would not have existed. Without Moses, the Jews would have never left Egypt. Neither Jesus nor God could have accomplished their goals alone. They had to delegate.”

Bruce gave another huff of breath again. “I was talking about you,” he said. “Don’t turn it around to make it about me, now.”

“We can talk about both of us,” Clark pointed out, just to be an ass. When Bruce crooked an eyebrow at him, he laughed, cupping his hands around Bruce’s face before he leaned in, pressing his lips against his temple to breathe in his scent. 

Sighing from the base of his throat, Bruce shook his head. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said.

“Which one?” Clark asked.

“Why that display at the opening ceremony?” Bruce asked him softly. “Why did you keep coming to me, even when you were trying so hard to hate me?” His stubble rubbed rough over Clark’s smooth cheek. “Why did you run away when I invited you into my life, and yet let me kneel in front of you?”

“Because—” Clark took a deep breath. He needed to stop this, he realised. He need to stop cutting himself off whenever he skirted too close to the truths that clung to him like a burr; should realise that the sharp prickling pain meant that he needed to _speak_. “Because, I—”

Another breath. “I told you before already, when I thanked you for buying the bank,” he whispered into Bruce’s hair, lips brushing over the strands. “It’s not enough for all that you did. All that you still do for me.”

“Not enough,” Bruce repeated.

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. “I don’t know how to save you. I don’t even know how to _help_ you. And you…” He laughed despite himself, because of himself. “You make me feel human, Bruce. Helplessly so. Because I can’t…” His hand curled around the nape of Bruce’s neck, feeling the warmth and strength of the corded muscles there. 

“I can’t repay the debt I owe you.”

“The debt,” Bruce echoed.

“Everything you do for me,” Clark whispered. “And it just seems that I can never do the same for you.”

That night at the docks; Bruce’s heartbeat in his ears, steadying him as he fell apart. The building beneath his feet. The newly-named team that he was still learning to call his friends. All of them had a single common thread, and that was Bruce. It had always been Bruce.

“Do you,” Bruce paused. Exhaled long and low, his head dropping down to rest on Clark’s shoulder. “Do you know why I started branding people, Clark?”

“I—” Clark blinked. He wanted to pull back so he could look Bruce in the eye, but that meant dislodging Bruce from his position; meant removing the warmth of his breath from Clark’s skin. It wasn’t, Clark decided, a very good trade. “A man I met told me that you were angry.”

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded. “Twenty years in Gotham, Clark. Twenty years, and all I received from it was…” He made a sharp, strangled sound that was too dark and bitter to be a laugh. “A dead son. Nightmares. Countless men and women who were good, who had been good, but who gave into their selfishness and the darkness in the end.”  
_  
_ Reaching up, Clark slowly carded his hand through Bruce’s hair. He heard the trip in Bruce’s heartbeat, and turned his head to press his lips gently against that grey-streaked temple. He didn’t speak.

“If the world was so cruel, if it was so dark, then what was the point of holding onto my morals?” Bruce continued. “’If you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’” _Nietzsche_ , Clark recognised. “The abyss wasn’t only looking at me, Clark. It had its claws on me, and I was almost entirely submerged in it.”

Bruce pulled back. He was smiling crookedly again, his eyes dark as they rested on Clark’s. “When I said that you are an inspiration, I wasn’t speaking metaphorically. Or generally.”

“What—” Clark licked at his lips. “What did I _do_?”

“You were you,” Bruce told him. “The world hated you, burned effigies of you, and yet you still died for them. I was everything you despised, I hurt you terribly, I tried and nearly succeeded in killing you… and you still trusted me enough to save your mother.” His thumb traced the air above Clark’s lips. “Then, when you came back, I found that you were flawed, too.”

“Oh,” Clark said. “But I died. But I didn’t—” It wasn’t enough, he realised. If all he had to do was to exist, if all he had to do was _nothing_ , then he… 

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded “So, what do you need to _do_?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said. He rubbed a hand over his face, unspeakably frustrated with himself. “I need to— I need to do _something_.” Not to earn Bruce’s affections. Not to earn being with him. But because he needed to… He just _had_ to. It wouldn’t feel right unless he did.

Bruce hummed under his breath. Then he nodded and took a step back. The warmth of his body was still there – they were barely two inches apart – but the loss of his solidity around Clark made his fingers ache with a sudden chill anyway.

“Do what you need to do,” Bruce said. “I can wait, and I will.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Clark protested immediately. “You waiting for me to do something for you just… just negates the whole purpose of my doing something, doesn’t it?” He paused and rubbed his hand over his face again. “But I can’t…” He scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “It’s not fair to make you deal with me, honestly.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Bruce said, voice dry. “Especially when you have to deal with _me_.”

Clark opened his mouth to protest that surely Bruce wasn’t as troublesome as himself. Then he remembered the number of times he had had to remind Bruce to _tell him_ things, and how that still didn’t seem to be enough… and closed his mouth. Bruce gave him an expansive shrug.

Huffing out a sigh, Clark dropped down to sit on the edge of the rooftop and stared out towards Metropolis again. “You know,” he said conversationally, “someone on the team would say that we deserve each other. I’m not sure _who_ , but at least one of them would.”

“Arthur,” Bruce replied promptly, sitting down next to him. “Diana would only imply it.”

“While Barry is still trying to catch on to what is happening,” Clark continued, “and Victor is doing his best to ignore everything because – most likely – he doesn’t want to be implicated.” He flashed Bruce a brief grin. “Am I right?”

“You’re catching up,” Bruce drawled out, the approval so thick in his tone that Clark couldn’t help but throw his head back and laugh.

“I try,” Clark said, sketching a small bow without getting up. Or hovering, even. 

“Yeah,” Bruce said. His voice was suddenly very soft, and his eyes were very bright. “Yeah,” Bruce continued. “You do.”

Clark wanted, all of a sudden, to lean in to kiss him. To taste him here, right above this building built according to Bruce’s plans and around the foundations that Clark had placed with his own hands. 

Not yet, Clark reminded himself. They couldn’t do anything just yet. Like Bruce had said, the building wasn’t hospitable. There was still work to be done.

“Do you want me to fly you back to Gotham?” he asked instead.

“Well,” Bruce said. His eyes slid away from Clark and focused on the spot below where he had landed the jet. “I have my own plane.” He paused and glanced at Clark out of the corner of his eyes. “Maybe next time?” 

“Next time,” Clark echoed. He reached out and took Bruce’s hand, thumb running over the knuckles just once before he dipped his head down to kiss it. “I’ll look forward to it, Mr Wayne.”

“You,” Bruce said, voice as flat as the stare he was levelling at Clark, “are a complete _shit_ sometimes.”

Barking out a laugh, Clark let him go. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, and deliberately hovered an inch off the roof and stretched himself backwards. “Especially when you’re still here.”

“I should go,” Bruce said. He didn’t move. By now, Clark knew him well enough to not be surprised, so he sat up and nudged Bruce’s shoulder with his own instead.

They sat there together like that. In silence, staring out towards their respective cities, with Clark listening to the steady thrum of Bruce’s heart, and Bruce… Well, Clark suspected that Bruce was focused on the sounds of Clark’s own breathing.

As the sun crested high enough in the sky to send streaks of oranges and pinks and purples over the clouds, Bruce stood up and headed for the stairwell. Clark didn’t turn, instead waiting until he could see Bruce’s figure below, crossing the grounds and headed for the jet. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to. Anyway, they seemed to have run out of things to say. 

Besides, if there was something they had forgotten, there was always next time. Clark was sure about that.

***

When Bruce opened his eyes, the room was dark; the kind of pitch black that came from tinted glass instead of the lack of light outside. It didn’t make sense: even through the fog of sleep, he distinctively remembered making the decision to let the light in.

A flash of white at the corner of his eyes. Immediately, Bruce rolled to his side, nearly falling off the bed as he grabbed for his phone. He stabbed at the screen.

> _Unknown number:_ You’re welcome. You needed the sleep.

Closing his eyes, Bruce let out a long, slow breath. He jabbed at the controls on the wall beside the bed. As the orange-red light of sunset filled the room, he unlocked his phone and scrolled down.

> _Unknown number:_ Easier for me to ask for forgiveness than permission, nowadays.  
>  _Unknown number:_ Oh, and. He’ll be angry that I sent this, but I think you deserve a warning anyway.

_Calling… unknown number…_  
Error: number not found.

Of course; Bruce had expected no less. He dropped the phone on the bed and stood up. The room, he noted, was warm. Not enough for it to feel stuffy under the blankets, no, but the usual chill he subjected himself to was absent. Barbara had messed with the thermostat, too. He should be angrier about that, he thought, but he couldn’t muster up that emotion.

Outside, the artificial lake was streaked with bright blues and oranges. Heavy clouds lingered at the edges of his vision; a thunderstorm was approaching. Just another normal Gotham day, really; nothing seemed to have changed despite all that had happened the day before. Nothing of the sky or the lake or even the room gave reason for the tiny sparks under Bruce’s skin, Or the tugging weight on the back of Bruce’s mind, the edges of this morning’s words scraping light against him whenever he breathed.

Dropping his head forward, Bruce watched as his breath fogged up the cool glass. Thirty-seven years since his parents’ deaths, and he still expected the wide world to change when his own had. Not that the change had been much, but still, he had hoped—

No point thinking about it. Bruce straightened and headed for the bathroom. He checked his phone on the way, but there were no new messages. He told himself that he didn’t expect to receive any; he hadn’t made contact, after all, and there were no cameras inside his bedroom that Barbara could use to hack. He told himself, again, that there was no reason to expect messages from anyone else.

Later, when he entered the kitchen, he had his towel slung over his shoulder and was using it to rub at his wet hair. 

Dick was perched there on the counter, one foot rocking a nearby chair back and forth as he spooned cereal and milk into his mouth. Lifting his eyes to Bruce, his lips curved up into a small, wry smile when Bruce didn’t show any surprise at his presence. 

“She told you,” he said, voice soft. “I should’ve known that she’d do that.”

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded. “She did.” If Dick wasn’t feeling up to mentioning her name, then Bruce would swallow it back as well. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Does it matter whether you take me by surprise or not?” he asked.

“Just wanted a couple of seconds of you being taken aback,” Dick answered, shrugging. Sliding off the counter, he turned his back to Bruce as he dumped his half-full bowl into the sink. “But it wouldn’t have made much of a difference, would it?”

“You’re mad at me,” Bruce noted. _That_ was obvious enough, though the reason was still opaque to him.

“Not really,” Dick shook his head. “More like I’m disappointed at myself.” He turned on the tap, water mixing with milk and soggy cereal and splashing all over the sink. Alfred would’ve been appalled by the sight, Bruce thought, and wondered where the older man had gone. Most likely keeping himself away down in the Cave to give Dick and Bruce ‘time to talk.’

Pushing the thoughts of Alfred away, Bruce focused on Dick again. “At yourself,” he repeated. “Why?”

“I wasn’t going to come,” Dick said, seemingly ignoring him though his tensing shoulders told Bruce that he had definitely heard. “I told myself that I was going to give you time. But.” Turning off the water, he drained the bowl. “I found myself here anyway.”

“Did you tell her that you were coming?” Bruce asked.

“Nah,” Dick shook his head. “She figured it out from the tracker she’d put on my bike.”

The last time Dick had told Bruce about Barbara, they seemed to be doing just fine. But that had been seven years ago, when Barbara had tried to speak up for Dick after his argument with Bruce; when Bruce had snapped at her to not interfere with his affairs. The one message he had received from her after that conversation was an unspoken one: Batgirl had vanished from Gotham.

After that, there just hadn’t been any chances for them to speak to each other. Batgirl and Batman always had far more to talk about, far many more chances to meet, than Bruce Wayne and Commissioner Gordon’s daughter.

Still, Bruce should’ve known something had happened between Dick and Barbara. Throughout all of Dick’s visits, he had never once mentioned her. Even now, he wasn’t saying her name. It wasn’t like the Dick who had once lived at the Manor; the Dick who had talked about her every chance he could.

Then again, none of them were the same people they had been seven years ago. They couldn’t be. Not after Jason’s death.

“The two of you don’t talk?” Bruce asked. 

“We do, sometimes,” Dick said. “She even pops by ‘Haven, once in a while.” He picked up the sponge and started scrubbing at the bowl and spoon, using enough force to send soap suds flying all over the place. “But we’ve never… We just… After Jason’s death, we decided to take a break. Figure things out by ourselves.” He sighed. “We might still be on that break, I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”

“Oh,” Bruce said. There was nothing else he could add, really; he didn’t exactly have the kind of track record with romantic relationships that would make any advice he could give anything more than pure bullshit. Still, he couldn’t help but say, “Have you—” 

“I’m not here to talk about her,” Dick interrupted him. “I’m here because—” He stopped. Sighed, and rubbed at his eyes again. “Fuck.”

“It’s not like you to prevaricate,” Bruce pointed out. _That’s for me to do,_ he didn’t add. _And it’s usually you who pull me out of it_. Things were different now. And though months had past since Dick had come back to his life, he still hadn’t figured out all of the chances.

“No, it’s not,” Dick agreed. He washed the soap off and stacked the bowl and spoon neatly onto the drying rack before resting his wrists on the edge of the sink. “Look, Bruce, I… I’m sorry.”

 _What_? Bruce blinked. “What for?”

“For failing the test,” Dick said, back still to him. “For coming here instead of waiting for another chance to prove myself to you.”

Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it. “What test?” he asked, genuinely befuddled.

Dick froze. “Alfred’s request,” he said, drawing out the words. “Five days ago.” He took a deep breath. “I was neck-deep in a pretty big drug bust at the time, and look, I wanted to help, I really did, but I couldn’t just dump everything on Amy – my partner, did I mention her to you before? I think I did—” 

Crossing the room in three steps, Bruce slammed his hands down on Dick’s shoulders with enough force to cut him off. “Dick,” he said again. 

“Let me finish,” Dick said, shaking his head hard and jerking out of Bruce’s grip. “I realised something was happening then, something _big_ , and maybe it’s Alfred and not you, but that was the chance I was being given to have a part in it. But I couldn’t, I just _can’t_ drop everything to run over, not anymore, and that’s why I called her to help. I _know_ I shouldn’t have done that without asking you, but I—”

“It wasn’t a test!” Bruce interrupted, voice nearly loud enough to be shout. When Dick lifted his head up to stare at him with wide eyes, Bruce dragged in a breath through his teeth. “It wasn’t a test,” he repeated. “It wasn’t— Alfred asked you to pass on the message without my knowledge.”

“Oh,” Dick said.

“That doesn’t mean that you don’t have a part in this,” Bruce continued, practically tripping over his words in his rush to get them out, to stop Dick from misunderstanding him before it come happen. “You already _do_. Don’t you remember that meeting with the board members?” 

“Huh?” Dick blinked. “I thought this thing is about Mannheim and Sionis and organised crime?”

Alfred wasn’t here, but Bruce could hear his voice anyway: _You are opaque and difficult to read_ , Alfred had told him during Clark’s first visit to this house. _Your preferred mode of communications is through actions that are symbols that can be so easily misinterpreted that you might as well have not attached any meaning to them at all_.

Sighing, Bruce took a step back. “All part of the same plan,” he said, pulling the towel from his shoulders to rub it over his face. “A plan that literally no one but me knows about because I’m spectacularly bad at actually telling people about things.”

Dick was staring at him again. Wide-eyed and open-mouth, head tilted to the side. It was so exaggerated that Bruce couldn’t help but reach out and tip his jaw back closed. “What?” he asked irritably.

“Two things,” Dick held up two fingers. “One, I’ve known that about you forever, but that’s like the _first time_ you’ve actually said that out loud about yourself.”

“I’ve had some reminders,” Bruce said. He paused. “From sources that make it hard to deny.”

“Clark?” Dick raised an eyebrow.

“Alfred,” Bruce corrected. When Dick didn’t shift his gaze _or_ his eyebrow, Bruce sighed. “And Clark, too. Along with the rest of the League, in some way or another.”

“Uh huh,” Dick drawled out. “I believe you.” When Bruce rolled his eyes, he flashed him a grin.

“Nice name, by the way. Amy showed it to me from the papers. Nice article by one Clark Kent, too.” Neither his words nor his tone was particularly pointed, but Bruce had to stifle a wince anyway. Because that was a hell of a reminder about just how much he had been keeping Dick out of the loop.

He scratched his chin. “Actually, that brings me to my second point. Which is that I really can’t figure out just how confronting a bunch of rich assholes about the illegality and immorality of their actions has anything to do with raids on organised crime headquarters or publicity for the League.” He paused. “Might be because I’m completely out of practice with these things, but I really don’t get it.”

Bruce considered his options for a moment. Then, nodding, he laid the towel on a clear spot of the counter before heading over to the shelves to pick up four bowls. Dick followed him immediately, taking the things from him and placing them on top of the towel.

“You’re not that much out of practice,” Bruce said. He grabbed the still-wet spoon from the rack. “Just lacking information.”

“I’ll believe it when I get what you’re going to tell me,” Dick said.

Snorting under his breath, Bruce arranged the bowls until they resembled a diamond with one each at the top and bottom and two in the middle. He tapped that particular bowl with the spoon. “Sionis and Mannheim,” he said. “City-level organised crime, with links to,” the one above it on the left, “the Foundation’s board members due to their corruption,” then the one to the right, “and a group of human trafficking rings who are their suppliers.”

Dick held out his hand, and Bruce gave the spoon to him. “Corruption of individual board members is enabled by government-level policies and national-level ideals,” Dick continued, tapping on the third-level bowl that sat directly in between the two below. “Human trafficking rings are controlled by a mob group with ties directly to their government as well.”

“Like I said,” Bruce drawled out, “you’re not out of practice.”

Seeming to ignore him, Dick pulled himself up to sit on the corner of the counter. “Three-pronged approach,” he said, more thinking aloud than speaking to Bruce. “Get rid of Mannheim and Sionis to deal with the most overt symptom of the disease.” He flipped that bowl over to the underside. “Confront the Foundation members to get rid of that second symptom.” Another bowl turned. “Bypass the rings to go straight to level of the mob and government and international law.” He flicked the bowl on the top over, and then frowned.

“Why do nothing about the rings?” he asked.

“We did do something about the rings,” Bruce corrected. “The arrests of the Russian mob members in Paris, remember?”

“Yeah, I’ve read about that,” Dick said, slightly distracted. “But you know as well as I do that with organisations like this, getting rid of the head won’t really stop the smaller groups at the bottom from resuming operations. They run pretty autonomously.” He glanced up at Bruce for a moment. “In fact, the raids of both headquarters of that bratva seems more like a show of power than doing anything useful.”

Bruce reached over and lifted the entire drying rack, taking the tray out from beneath. Flipping it over, he put the thing carefully above all of the bowls and tapped at the plastic with his fingertips. “The police. The people.” Picking up the cereal bowl, he dropped it on top of the tray. “The League.” Tapping at the side of that bowl, he spun it over to its side. Every move it made caused the tray below to rattle, which in turn shook the bowls at the very bottom.

“Pretending to be Big Brother so as to not really be Big Brother,” Dick murmured. “Hah.”

“Not how I would’ve put it,” Bruce shook his head, eyes fixed on the display in front of him. He ran his fingers over the rim of the topmost bowl, driving it in circles on the tray. “More like giving people ownership. Refusing to allow them to blind themselves to what is happening to the world.” He stopped his finger when the bowl was right in the middle of the tray. “A matter of manpower, too.”

“If that’s the case, then why didn’t you bring me in?” Dick asked. His eyes were still turned away from Bruce, but the tension around him was thrumming heavily enough that Bruce could feel the weight of the question anyway.

“Because,” Bruce said, and then sighed. Flicking a finger at the topmost bowl, Bruce said. “Here’s the League.” Then he touched the bowl representing Mannheim and Sionis. “Here is where Malone and the Bat can do some work.” Then the bowl now symbolic of the board members and the top-level one representing the government. “Here is Bruce Wayne.”

He paused. “I couldn’t figure out where to put you,” he finally figured. “Not in a way that wouldn’t actually ask more from you than you can give without compromising your actual job. Or your city.”

Dick looked at him for a moment, spinning the spoon slowly between his fingers. “Here,” Dick said, tapping the side of the bowl with Mannheim and Sionis. “Where there is a place for the Bat, there should be a place for Nightwing.” His lips curled up into a slow smile as he smacked the bowl representing the trafficking rings a bit harder. “Five years in a police force. I know how to break apart the operations of small fry, though it might not work in another country.” 

Then, grinning, he flung the spoon at the tray hard enough to jar it to the side and send the bowl on top spinning. “I’m surrounded by police officers every day, Bruce. I _am_ one. Giving them a sense of ownership while earning their goodwill is something Nightwing is well versed in.”

Lifting his eyes, he crooked an eyebrow at Bruce. “I don’t need you to find a place for me. I can figure that out all by myself.”

Bruce stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t—”

“It’s been seven years since we’ve talked,” Dick interrupted him. “I’d be _very_ surprised if you knew exactly what I can do now, even if you’ve been keeping track of me.” He picked up the spoon and handed it to Bruce, handle-first. “That’s kind of why you need to tell me what’s happening.”

Leaning back harder against the counter, Bruce sighed. “You should be angrier than me than you are,” he said.

Dick looked away. “Like I said, I’m more disappointed in myself,” he shrugged. “That I didn’t figure out something bigger was happening earlier. That I didn’t ask you more directly.” After a moment, he sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his forearm again. “Bruce, how can you believe that I want to know and help when I can’t even balance my life in Bludhaven with… with, well, helping with this?”

Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it. _Oh_ , he thought. Pieces fell together in his head; not just what Dick had told him, but also all that he hadn’t said. All that he had conspicuously left out. 

Reaching out, he carefully closed his fingers around Dick’s shoulder. When Dick didn’t pull away, he took a deep breath and said, “You don’t have to prove anything to me.” 

“What?” Dick blinked.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Bruce repeated. “You don’t have to help me with this, or anything else, to prove yourself to me. You don’t have to hide the parts of your life that aren’t going well to prove anything.”

“How…” Dick shook his head hard, huffing a laugh under his breath. “Here I thought I could have hidden something from you.”

“It would’ve worked if I still had my head up my ass,” Bruce said. Then he paused, because that had been what he was _thinking_ , but he hadn’t expected the words to come so easily to his tongue. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the laugh that wanted to break out. “But… Dick, I mean it.”

“I know you do,” Dick said. His smile grew crooked again as he continued, “But it’s not just for you. I want to prove to myself, too.”

“Ah,” Bruce nodded. The look in Dick’s eyes told him everything: police work or not, seven years of separation had gotten him used to working alone instead of being part of a team, and he had to reverse those instincts again. 

Cocking his head to the side, Bruce thought for a moment. “I can ask the others if they’re willing to let you join the League,” he offered.

“Hell no,” Dick refused immediately, shaking his head. “Look, it’s a nice thing you have there, but that team of yours…” He pushed himself up to sit on the counter, legs swinging slightly as his smile widened. “I’ve never been comfortable with the big things. You know that.”

Bruce did; though Dick had always understood intellectually what charity gala dinners were for, he had never really _felt_ their necessity. Bruce could still remember the rants he had given at all of ten years old about the money wasted to please rich people just to incur enough goodwill for them to donate even more money; all of the grumbles he had made about how that money could be better used and charity shouldn’t be a form of investment. If Dick already didn’t like something on that small of a scale, then what the League was doing – all that it was planning to do – wouldn’t suit him at all.

“I’d like to meet them, though,” Dick continued. “They seem cool.”

“They will probably be very surprised by you,” Bruce noted wryly. “But I’ll see what I do.” Shifting his gaze over to that little display of bowls and tray on the counter, he crossed his arms and tapped his fingers on his bicep, thinking. “This isn’t going to be the end of it, you know.”

“What?”

“You have a good point about the ways you can help,” Bruce said. “But it’s very awkward to implement those suggestions at this particular stage.” His frown deepened. “In the future, though… I guarantee there will be other cases. You can help, then. If you want.”

“Sounds good,” Dick said. When Bruce cocked his head at him, he shrugged. “If you think it’s something I can do, then I trust your judgment. Just… tell me everything that’s happening beforehand, first? Then I can…” he waggled his fingers in the air. “Schedule. Things like that.”

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded. It wasn’t the same as in the past, he thought; not like that time when Dick would’ve dropped everything just to come to him. Or even further back, before Jason, when Dick had been Robin and there had been nothing in his life that Bruce didn’t know about. Now… Now Dick had his own life in another city, and any help he offered Bruce came with the caveat of him having time. It was…

Something to get used to. But, Bruce suspected, it was a good thing.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Bruce ignored it, focusing on Dick. “That message that Alfred asked you to pass… it’s only peripherally involved in that,” he waved towards the bowl. “Short version: weapons tailor-made to take out the League are being smuggled into the country.” He paused. “Most likely at the United States’s government’s behest.”

Leaning back on his hands, Dick let out a low whistle. “Fearing what is powerful and cannot be controlled, huh?” he shook his head. “Sounds like the government, alright.”

“Sounds like all organisations with power,” Bruce corrected, pushing himself away from the table. “It’s a complex web that we’re trying to break, here.”

“One that’s made out of titanium, at that,” Dick snorted. He jumped off the counter and started gathering bowls in his hand. “Remind me to tell you about corruption in Bludhaven, sometimes.”

“You can tell me now,” Bruce pointed out.

“Nah,” Dick said. He placed the tray back underneath the drying rack. “That’s just going to ruin my mood, because it’s fucking depressing.” Then he turned and grinned at Bruce over his shoulder. “I’d rather ask you how things are with Clark.”

“Oh?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to tell me how things are with Barbara, then?”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Dick protested immediately, jabbing a finger in Bruce’s direction. “You can’t pull the porn collection clause on me about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dick said, drawling out the word, “Barbara and I didn’t put up a _very_ public display of affection. Very chivalrous and old-fashioned of Clark to kiss your hand like that, by the way. Twitter approves.”

Before he could stop himself, Bruce wondered if Dick was actually trawling the Internet for those fanarts that Victor mentioned. Then he slapped his hand across his own face because that was a dangerous road to traverse. Far too dangerous for even the Gotham Bat. “ _Dick_ ,” he gritted out instead. “ _Stop_.”

Dick started to cackle, loud and bright, while muttering under his breath about _stepdad_ and _like hell he’s not_. Dick dug his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone, desperately looking for a distraction. Given that it was most likely just Barbara texting him, it wouldn’t be much of one—

> _Clark Kent_ : The others will like him, I think. Especially Barry.  
>  _Clark Kent_ : Sorry I was listening in. I was really trying not to, but you said my name.  
>  _Clark Kent_ : I’m really glad he approves, though. One step more to being accepted as a potential stepfather.  
>  _Clark Kent:_ How old is he, by the way? I need to know the age of my potential stepson. I can’t act all fatherly if he’s only two years younger than me.  
>  _Clark Kent_ : That was a joke, by the way!!! A joke!!!!  
>  _Clark Kent_ : Both of the previous messages were jokes!  
>  _Clark Kent_ :Look, take nothing I said after the apology seriously.  
>  _Clark Kent_ :Also, I _swear_ that I’m not stalking you.  
>  _Clark Kent_ : Texts are supposed to stop you from saying the wrong things, aren’t they?  
>  _Clark Kent_ : I should stop texting so fast maybe.  
>  _Clark Kent_ : I should stop texting you.  
>  _Clark Kent_ : Bye Bruce.

_Clark Kent_ _is typing…_

Bruce stared at the messages for a long moment before he pressed his palm hard against the bridge of his nose. His shoulders shook and he locked his jaw even harder, hissing out his breath so he didn’t end up bursting into laughter.

> _You_ : Generally, you don’t put punctuation at the end of sentences unless you’re saying something serious. Just a note

His hand hovered over the keys for a moment before he continued typing:

> _You:_ I don’t mind you listening in. This time, at least

He was halfway to putting his phone into his pocket when it buzzed again. The screen lit up.

> _Clark Kent:_ [heart emoji]  
>  _Clark Kent_ : Just so you know, it took me literally five minutes before I decided to send that to you. Take it as you will  
>  _Clark Kent_ :(Look, no ending punctuation!)

Well, Bruce definitely couldn’t say that Clark didn’t listen to him, now. In fact, they might be skirting on the different but still-dangerous territory of Clark listening to him _too_ much.

“We’ve been trying to date other people,” Dick said. He had, Bruce noted faintly, stopped laughing a few minutes ago. “But that hadn’t been working out very well for the two of us, so…” He shrugged. “Maybe we’ll try again, maybe we won’t. We’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Weren’t you refusing to tell me anything about you and Barbara?” Bruce asked, arching a brow.

“Wouldn’t be fair,” Dick grinned at him. “You don’t have to _say_ anything but that,” he waved a hand at the phone in Bruce’s, “was obviously a text from Clark and… Bruce, you really should try to catch a look of your own face in the mirror. Might tell you something.”

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t need to,” he said, thumb running over the phone’s screen – over Clark’s name – before he could stop himself. “I’ve figured it out long ago.”

“But?” Dick leaned forward.

“That’s not for you to find out,” Bruce said, poking him on the forehead and pushing his face back. Dick yelped and windmilled his arms, reaction far too exaggerated for someone who could keep his balance on a wire, much less a very steady stone counter. “Stop poking your nose into this.”

“Alright, alright,” Dick held up his hands. He kicked out one foot, nudging it against Bruce’s shin. “Tell me more about this thing about weapons being smuggled into the country. I want the long version.”

Bruce considered his options. “Come down to the Cave,” he decided. “I’ll show you what I have.”

Dick nodded and, without another word, jumped down from the counter to follow him.

It wasn’t the same, Bruce noticed again. Dick wasn’t practically bouncing to catch up to him, wasn’t chattering incessantly about everything and nothing. Instead, he was silent, and his strides were long and steady, keeping pace with Bruce easily even though he was still a few inches shorter. Walking beside him, and not behind.

Something he had to get used to. Something he could and perhaps even wanted to, because this…

This was better, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually, the small threads mentioned in previous chapters _will_ be picked up again in later chapters. That’s why those threads were even there. Because I like building tapestries when writing. : >
> 
> Since the plot is winding down, this is a slow chapter. I hope I still managed to balance out the character development, plot, _and_ themes. I’ve been kind of worried about that lately, to be honest. /stares at own work.


	14. handing over (the keys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A King, a Princess, and a representative of Earth speaks to the United Nations. Along the way, some goodbyes were said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Time-skip.Politicking in the second scene, featuring real UN representatives who have most likely been misrepresented. /waves the fiction flag intensively. Also, depiction of the aftermath and recovery efforts of human trafficking victims. And, finally, this chapter is _over_ _thirteen thousand words_ long.

Ileana had changed her brand of cigarettes; the acridity of the tobacco was stronger than before, without the trace of cloves to cut the sharpness. But the jaw illuminated by the flickering flame of the lighter had filled out some; the month since she had left that rotten purple building had been good to her.

Leaning back against the rickety metal chair, Matches looked around himself. They were at one of the many cafes down the road from the Six Swans headquarters; it had long closed, of course, but the tables and chairs were still outside, kept safe by red velvet ropes and trust in a gentrified neighbourhood.

“I heard that you died,” Ileana said. The words were soft, exhaled out together with the white smoke trailing from her lips. “Shot and then left to drown in the Harbour.”

“Rumours like to exaggerate,” Matches drawled, stretching out his legs and watching her from above his sunglasses. “Did you mourn for me?” 

“No,” she shook her head. Her finger flicked at the filter of her cigarette – sending ash scattering all over the ground – before she brought it up again for another slow drag. “I heard, but I didn’t believe.”

Her eyes had been fixed in the direction of the northwest; towards the building where she had been trapped for so long. Now she finally shifted her gaze to him, and there were shadows tugging at the corners of her eyes that had nothing to do with those cast by the streetlights.

“I’ve suspected that you’re not who you claim to be for a long time,” Ileana said. She took another drag, head tilting to the side and one side of her mouth pulling up into a mirthless smile. “Ever since the second time I saw you, in fact.”

“Hah,” Matches said. He dug out his matchbook, placing one in between his teeth. “You’re a smart girl, so you might be right.” He lifted his eyes. “What will you do, if you are?”

“Nothing,” she shrugged, gaze drifting back towards the northwest. Matches wondered if she was so drawn towards that direction because of him, or if it was her body’s automatic attraction to the familiar. “Matters concerning this city never had anything to do with me. Now, I don’t have to care.”

When the sun rose, Ileana would be headed to Gotham International to board a flight back to Bucharest. That was why Matches had asked for this meeting in the first place.

“Then why did you agree to meet me?” He folded his hands on top of his crossed knees. “There is no reason for you to. Not anymore.”

“Because—” Ileana stopped. Her shoulders shook as she brought her cigarette to her lips again, and soft, broken chuckles escaped her along with the white smoke. “I wanted to see if you would bother lying to me.” She paused. “I wanted— I _want_ to know why.”

“Why what?”

“You chose me,” Ileana said. “All of the girls in the building, and you chose me. All of the girls in the city, and you chose me.” When Matches opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head, that lopsided smile returning to her face. “I met another girl who went through the same thing. Though she didn’t see it the same way.”

“Ramona Cernat?” Matches said.

“Of course you’d know her name,” Ileana said, ducking her head down. “Did you know that we’ve spoken, too?”

“No,” Matches shook his head. He pulled the match in his mouth, staring at it for a moment, before he tossed it away. It clattered softly on the pavement as he pulled off the sunglasses, setting them down on the table. “It was an educated guess.”

Ileana jerked slightly; either at his actions or the crisp enunciation of his words, New Jersey drawl stripped away. Matches gave her a bland smile, less himself than Bruce Wayne, before he crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. “Your movements aren’t being followed and reported upon, don’t worry.”

“Maybe not,” she shrugged again. “But you know so much about us already, so what’s the difference, in the end?”

“Intentions,” Bruce countered, toying at the edge of Matches’s false moustache. Better to not take it off, he thought; even if Ileana said that she wouldn’t speak about what she knew now, she might still change her mind later. _Some_ plausible deniability was necessary. “Surveillance has never been part of them.”

“That’s a lie,” Ileana pointed out.

“Never been part of my intentions for you,” Bruce corrected himself. “Better?”

“More honest,” she said. “Though you’re giving me far more now than I’ve ever expected. Is it because I’m leaving? Or because I owe you a debt that I can’t ever repay?”

“Both,” Bruce admitted easily. It wasn’t a lie; both were factors that he had considered. The third – that he had _some_ trust for her – wasn’t relevant at the moment. She wouldn’t believe of it anyway. “But your point was something else, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ileana said. She took a last drag on her cigarette before tossing the butt on the floor and kicking it to the curb. “Why did you choose me?”

“What makes you think I did?” Bruce countered.

Ileana didn’t answer him for a long moment, placing her attention instead on taking out her pack and lighting up another cigarette. Over the bright orange flame, she stared at him. Which, Bruce thought, he likely deserved, given all that they had just said. Given all that had just happened.

“I didn’t _choose_ you,” he said. “It was a matter of circumstances.” 

“Circumstances,” she repeated.

“The first time we met,” Bruce reminded.

She gave him a thin smile, leaning further back against her chair and dropping her hand down to her side. “I asked around,” she said. “There are those who had been stuck in places like that for far longer than even me.” 

Who could she have asked? The only one who fitted that description was the madam, and she was arrested during the raids. Even now, she was in jail, awaiting trial.

“You were one of the boss’s favourites,” Ileana continued, practically drawling out the words. “That wasn’t the first time that you’d been offered a girl.” She spread out her hands. “I’m not the only one who has been offered to you.”

There was no one she could have asked; not as far as he knew. Besides, she was wrong: the very first time Matches Malone had visited that brothel, it had just been opened for less than a few months after the raid that had brought down its previous iteration. 

“Why are you lying to me,” Bruce asked, keeping his voice soft and low even as he fixed his gaze upon her, “while you’re trying to get me to tell you the truth?”

To her credit, Ileana didn’t freeze. She only lowered her eyes, bringing her cigarette up to her lips again and taking another drag. “Would you have told me anything otherwise?”

_Yes,_ Bruce wanted to say. Still, he knew himself better than that. She knew him better, too, because she wouldn’t have believed him if he’d said that.

“It doesn’t give me any reason to actually answer,” he said instead, picking up the match box on the table and placing a stick between his teeth. “If you knew that I’m not who I said that I am, then why do you believe that those methods that would work on men like these,” he tapped the glasses, “would work on me?”

“Why,” Ileana snapped out, and then stopped and took a deep breath. When she started again, her voice was flatter, practically a dead monotone: “Why do you think?”

The same reason why, even now, her body was still turned in the direction of the northwest.

“I don’t know,” he said instead. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Ileana: you’re not like Ramona.” He paused. “Neither is that farmboy reporter like me.”

“That much is obvious,” Ileana snorted. 

When she didn’t speak for long moments, Bruce unfolded his legs and leaned forward. Then, picking up the glasses and putting them back on, he drawled out in Malone’s New Jersey accent, “You wanna know if I did it for you or for him, girlie?” He dropped an elbow onto the table. “Or if I did it for _her_?”

Slowly, Ileana closed her eyes. Through another waft of smoke, she said, “Yes.”

Bruce hissed out a breath through his teeth, thinking over his words. He could give her Malone’s reasons again, but she knew those already and had them confirmed a long time ago. 

Letting out a sigh, he looked at her again, this time making sure that his eyes were hidden behind the glasses. “Why are you here, girlie?” he asked.

“Because you asked,” she said, speaking around another drag of her cigarette.

“Why did you agree?” 

Tipping her head back, Ileana opened her eyes to look up to the sky. “I wanted to be sure,” she whispered. “I want to _know_.” 

He shouldn’t be surprised that she would be more willing to speak to Malone than to Bruce Wayne. It made sense: she’d known Malone for far longer, and Bruce Wayne was only a distant figure. Yet now, with her honesty cupped within the palms of his hands and a pair of false glasses weighing on his face…

“Why?”

“I need to be sure,” Ileana said.

“Of what?”

Another drag. Her hand, Bruce noticed, was starting to tremble. She made a sound that was almost like a choke before she lowered her head. Her eyes were so bright under the streetlights that the embers of her cigarettes were made dull by them.

“You’ve met Ioana,” she said softly. “That’s why.”

_Ioana_. That girl who ran to him asking for Bruce Wayne to plead mercy for her pimp; for the man who had used and abused her for his own benefit, simply because he had given her some form of kindness. If this was all because of Ioana, because of Ileana’s fear of finding the girl’s image replacing her own in the mirror…

A smirk curved up Malone’s lips. “Don’t get such a big head, girlie,” he drawled out, sprawling himself out on the chair. He plucked out the match from his mouth and flicked it at her. “Don’t think so highly of the farmboy reporter, either.”

She tilted her head at him. The light in her eyes gentled slightly, turning questioning.

Malone spread out his hands. “He gave me a reason to move my ass,” he said. “You gave me a method. But a man like me works only for his own benefit. You know that, girlie.”

“Yes,” Ileana said, gaze steady on him now. “I know.” 

“See, I hadn’t a liking for Sionis for a while,” Malone continued, rolling his shoulders backwards. “He ain’t much for paying his people well – visits to brothels are all well and good, but they ain’t gonna make me rich, you know what I mean? Now…” He swung himself forward, elbows slamming onto the metal café table loud enough to make the sound ring around them.

“Now I can do whatever I like. Go wherever I want.” He waggled his fingers in the air for a moment. “I might just go to Atlanta. Start up a criminal empire all on my own with the money I took while everything’s been going to shit around here.” His lips twisted into a sharper smirk. “You think I’ll succeed?”

“You were just making use of me?” Ileana asked.

Bruce deliberately ignored the slight tremor in her voice, turning his head and pulling another match from the book with a toss of his fingers and a snap of his teeth. “You were a convenience, girlie,” he said. “Don’t think of yourself as anything better.”

Her eyes slipped back closed. “Oh.” Her head dropped forward, and she took a shaky inhale of her cigarette. “ _Oh._ ” 

Despite her propensity for masks, despite the years in which she had had to use them to survive, she still couldn’t hide the relief. It was etched on every inch of her face, emanating from every part of her body, muscles relaxing as if strings pulling them taut had been snapped. 

“I ain’t gonna reject it if you want to show me some gratitude, though,” Malone continued. “Whaddya say, girlie? Should we go back to your room and you can show me—”

The scrape of metal legs on concrete pavement rang out sharply around them. One of Ileana’s hands was flat on the table, and the other was gripping tight onto Malone’s collar. Her shoulder was tense and the bones of her wrist were standing out starkly, but she couldn’t move him a single inch. 

Not that she was trying to. She was only looking at him, eyes heavy-lidded. The knuckles of the hand on the table were very white. On the ground, her abandoned cigarette rolled towards the curb.

Slowly, Malone lowered his head. He met that tremulous gaze with his own over the tops of the glasses. “What’s that, girlie?” he said, thickening his New Jersey accent even further. “We’re going back up to that pretty new room of yours?” 

A few seconds of silence and stillness. Then, she smiled. “Go fuck yourself,” she said, and shoved herself away. As the chair clattered to the ground, she whirled around and walked away.

“Having sex with a dead man is something to brag about, y’know!” Malone called after her, just for good measure. She replied him with nothing but a middle finger thrown over her shoulder. Malone threw his head back and laughed, the cackles loud in the quiet neighbourhood.

He stopped the moment she turned around the corner. Reaching up, Bruce pulled off the glasses and slipped them into the pocket of Malone’s ugly jacket. Then he stood and placed the chairs back on top of the table, sweeping the ash and cigarette butts from the pavement down to the nearby drain, covering up as many signs of their presence here as possible.

Then, leaning a hip against the table, he turned his head up to the sky. “Sometimes,” he said to it, “a villain is more necessary than a hero.” He huffed out a breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Cruelty serves as a better excuse than kindness, and gratitude is nothing but a burden.”

There wouldn’t be a reply; he wasn’t even sure if Clark would be listening. But he hoped he was, because…

The knowledge would become a necessity soon.

***

The United Nations headquarters located Turtle Bay, New York City, looked like a bunch of Lego blocks stacked on top of each other. The glass panels that covered every single inch caught the mid-morning sunlight and turned it so blindingly bright that even Clark’s enhanced vision could barely see the row of flags below it. 

It likely looked better from below, Clark told himself. 

Closing his eyes, he focused on the sound of a particular car’s tyres. At the very moment when the quality of the pavement it was rolling over changed, Clark’s earpiece crackled.

“Traffic conditions are as predicted.” Victor reported. The hollow echo that tagged alongside his voice was gone; Clark wasn’t sure if it was because the headquarters were less empty nowadays or if Bruce’s improvements on the communicators had actually worked. “You should be able to reach the designated location in ten minutes.”

“How does a car look cool on traffic cameras?” Barry muttered. “I thought _nothing_ looked cool on traffic cameras.”

“ _Focus_ , Flash,” Diana chided, the trace amusement in her voice muffled by the sound of roaring winds. “Aquaman, are you in position?”

Bubbling sounds. Not even the Gotham Bat could find a way to upgrade a communicator to pick up words that didn’t actually exist. And Arthur was stubbornly refusing to _talk_ when he was underwater; it had been enough of a trial to get him to wear the communicator in the first place.

Anyway, it was almost time, and Clark should stop stalling. Reaching a hand up, he tapped at his earlobe. An unnecessary action, but it made him feel a little better. Gave him a sense of security that he would be heard if he spoke. 

“I’m heading in,” he said. “ETA thirty seconds. Less.” Then, before anyone else could reply, he dived downwards, fast enough to create a minor sonic boom as he passed through the stratosphere and shot through miles of air to reach the ground.

Superman landed in front of the building that represented the world’s coalition of countries with his cape flaring out red behind him. He didn’t turn around to look at the crowd of reporters gathered behind the barricades, instead keeping his eyes forward and feet hovering a couple of inches off the ground.

The glass was as blinding below as it had been above the clouds, Clark noted. But at least he could see the flags properly now.

As the chatter caused by his arrival ended, the waters of East River _roared_. Clark stopped counting the number of flags and turned his head. A distance away, a wave was rising to a tsunami-level height. He didn’t smile at the sight of the figure perched on top, only waiting until Arthur had lowered the wave – _over_ the heads of the reporter, covering them with water without letting a single drop touch their skins – and jumped off of it. He spun the weapon in his hand – a trident instead of the five-point staff that Clark was used to seeing – before slamming the base of it against the ground as he landed.

Behind Arthur, the wave retreated. In a matter of seconds, the East River calmed again. Only the droplets of water clinging to Arthur’s hair, dripping slowly onto the pavement below, were proof of his unique method of arrival.

Stepping up, Arthur caught Superman’s eye, and gave him a nod. Then, they simultaneously turned their eyes upwards.

From the very top of the UN building, Diana jumped. The red and gold of her armour caught the sunlight as her descent was heralded by the shouts of the reporters and the frantic turns of the cameramen as they tried to catch a good shot of her. Diana turned her head, flashing Arthur and Clark both a smile before she landed. The pavement shook from the impact, but neither cracked nor made a sound. 

Diana rolled forward and stood. She was exactly the same distance to Clark’s right as Arthur was to his left.

“Not bad,” Bruce murmured in Clark’s ear, voice amused. “Hell of an impressive display, really.”

Turning his head away from the cameras, Arthur snorted. “Get your ass here already,” he murmured under his breath. 

“Unlike all of you,” Bruce drawled, “I have to rely on _conventional_ methods of transportation.”

“By which he means that he’s already at the gates,” Barry chimed in, helpfully translating. “Chill, water emoji.”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitched. But Clark was no longer looking at him, his eyes growing unfocused as he listened for the creak of well-oiled metal hinges as they opened. The low rumble of an engine; the roll of tires over asphalt. A very familiar heartbeat approached, pushing past all other sounds to reach his ears. Despite himself, despite it not being part of the plan, Clark turned around. 

An Aston Martin, painted glossily black, turned at the roundabout and came to a stop right in front of them. Bruce stepped out dressed in a beautifully-cut suit, his tie threaded with silver that matched the grey at his temples. As the car door slammed shut behind him, he stepped forward.

“King Orin of Atlantis,” he greeted Arthur, his voice resonant enough to reach the reporters’ microphone where they were sequestered away behind the barricades that encircled the inside of the roundabout. “Princess Diana of Themyscira,” he continued, turning to Diana and nodding to her.

Then his eyes turned to Clark. “Kal-El of Earth,” he said.

“Mister Wayne,” Clark returned. He took a couple of steps forward, one hand extended. “Thank you for agreeing to accompany us during this meeting.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Bruce took his hand, squeezing it lightly. “As well as my honour.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Barry suddenly hissed in their ears. “Clark, _stop_ eye-fucking Bruce already!”

It took all of Clark’s effort to not twitch, flail, yelp out loud, or do anything that would look strange in front of the reporters. Still, he was pretty sure that the fact that he had frozen stiff while clinging onto Bruce’s hand was pretty incriminating. Well, _fuck_.

“I think you two are going to explode Twitter,” Victor said, voice very droll. “I’m switching off notifications now, by the way. I’ll sift through everything later. If something traumatises me, I’m sending the bill to Bruce.”

“Can the peanut gallery,” Bruce muttered under his breath while giving Clark another nod and shaking his own hand loose, “please _shut up_.”

“Uh,” Barry said. Before he could say anything more, there was the quiet _smack_ of metal on skin followed by the _click_ of teeth meeting teeth. “Shutting _up_ ,” Barry spluttered. “Vic, you didn’t have to hit me!”

“Mister Wayne,” Diana said, stepping up smoothly with her own hand outstretched to take Bruce’s. “It really has been far too long since we last met.”

Did— Did Diana run her thumb over the inside of Bruce’s wrist? Did she just do that while deliberately turning that hand to the side so the movement could be caught by the cameras? Clark kept his mouth closed somehow. Okay, not _entirely_ closed, but he managed to wrangle his shocked expression to something that could approach Superman’s usual remoteness. Maybe it was even some kind of pleased approval; he wasn’t sure and didn’t want to be. It was good that he was nowhere near a mirror at the moment. 

Arthur’s shoulders were shaking very, very minutely as he practically lunged forward to take Bruce’s hand. “I have to agree with the Princess, Mister Wayne,” he said, his voice rumbling through Bruce’s surname so deeply that it was practically a caress. “It really has been too long since we last met.”

_We saw each other yesterday_ , Clark retorted mentally. When they were going through the details of their speeches for this particular meeting. _This_ , Clark knew for a fact, really, really hadn’t been part of the plan.

“How,” Victor said, sounding slightly strangled, “ _How_ is this supposed to help with anything?”

In the distance, church bells rang. Ten in the morning: the time that they were supposed to enter the building. Bruce turned his back without meeting any of their eyes, striding forward towards the large glass double doors of the building. But it was really impossible for him to miss Arthur’s murmured reply, given that the communicators carried it to all of them:

“No clue. I just wanted to join in on the fun.”

“We’re creating a diversion,” Diana said before Clark could even think up of a reply. “One person’s actions have a limited amount of interpretations, but three… There are more possibilities there, aren’t there?”

“In other words,” Arthur said, smirking out of the corner of his mouth, “we decided that the harem option is more fun.”

_Fun_. Right. Clark decided to focus on exhaling so slowly and shallowly that he didn’t look like he was breathing at all. Better that than actually thinking about what Arthur had said. He wasn’t quite sure what he might do if he did, and he had – they all had – caused Bruce enough trouble already.

As they headed up the escalators towards the main assembly venue – escorted by the guards who were now shadowing them from a distance away – Diana glanced to her side, meeting his eyes for a brief moment. “Kal, your expressiveness is certainly admirable, but perhaps you should learn more about controlling itwhile we are in public.” 

Her face was far too serene and her voice was too calm for what she was saying, Clark thought, and it really was making him feel enough like a chastised child that all of his anger drained away. He resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Got it,” he nodded instead, and focused on keeping his face as still as he could. 

“Am I allowed to have an opinion about this?” Bruce asked wryly under his breath. “I’m the one who has to deal with the press here, after all.”

“Nah,” Arthur said. “Call it payback for all the times you kept information from us.”

“That’s not nearly the same thing,” Bruce pointed out. Most likely because he wanted to have the last word, because they were only a few feet in front of the doors leading to the room where the General Assembly had been assembled.

Weeks, Clark reminded himself as he stared up to the top of the doors. It had been _weeks_ since they had raided the headquarters of the bratva; when they had put out information blaring a message to various countries that they must do something about the presence of organised crime. Weeks since Bruce had started up Six Swans and directly gone against Trump’s RAISE act. Weeks since the League had announced their presence and intentions to the world and made the first overture, and only _now_ would the United Nations agree to give them an audience.

Of course, Clark understood the reason given to them: scheduling a meeting with not only the Security Council but as many members of the United Nations as could gather was a behemoth task, especially when it was outside of the usual scheduled time for the General Assembly.

This was the only chance they had; the only one that they would be given. Somehow, Clark thought that he would be more nervous. That they would all be.

Slowly, the doors opened. Clark, with his feet still hovering above the ground, took the lead, walking down the aisle. The swishing slide of his cape on the carpeted floor was very loud in the heavy silence that carried nothing else— no, not nothing, Clark realised. He could hear the others’ footsteps, each _thud_ echoing throughout the cavernous rooms.

They took the steps up to the stage with eyes fixed on them. Clark took a deep breath of the caution and apprehension and outright fear emanating from the room of the eminent leaders and representatives of the world. Then he lowered himself down. His toes touched the wooden boards first, then the balls of his feet, then his heels.

_Don’t bother acting like you’re human_ , Bruce had told all three of them the day before. _Many of them already fear you – fear_ us. _There’s no point either assuaging their fears or playing their games. We need to bring them into ours._

When the reporters had fully settled themselves into the back of the room, the man seated in the middle of the central table in front of them stood up. “I call—”

“Atlantis, Themyscira, and Earth,” a voice drawled out, interrupting the Secretary-General before he could even finish his sentence. The one who spoke was seated at the panel reserved for permanent members of the Security Council, lounging in his chair with his arms folded above his ribs. There was a foreign twang to his words, nearly drowned out by the American West Coast accent that coated them. “What is the American doing up there?”

“The Justice League was invited to speak,” Diana said, voice mild. “Mister Wayne, as our financier, is part of the League.”

Raising an eyebrow, the man cocked his head at her. _China_ , Clark recognised suddenly. Bruce had said: _China’s government uses its organised crime like Putin, but they might be even more dangerous. Because the Communist Party directly hires members of their mob groups to intimidate citizens living in rural areas during election periods. It’s an open secret._

_Not to mention their human rights record,_ Victor had added. _What’s more dangerous about them is their imperviousness to international intervention. One of their ‘dissidents,’_ he had made air quotes, _won the Nobel Peace Prize, but the government refused to acknowledge anything he had done. They also refused to allow him to seek medical treatment and, well. He’s dead, now._

“Is this League not supposed to be neutral with regards to countries?” This time, Clark could immediately peg the accent: _Russia_. “‘Air has no borders. Neither does my hearing.’ Are you going back on your own words, Superman?”

_Russia’s representative is new_ , Victor had briefed them the day before. _The last one died in office, and they had someone as acting representative. This one, Nebenzya, has been in office for less than a month. A lot will be weighing on his performance._

“Mister Wayne might be an American citizen,” Clark said, ripping out every single emotion in his voice to leave only a low monotone behind, “but he’s not here as a representative of American interests. He is here as a member of the same Justice League that had been issued an invitation to speak.”  
_  
“_ Rather convenient,” Nebenzya waved a hand. “However, in the interest of fairness… I’d like to request that Mister Wayne not speak for the rest of the meeting.” His eyes slid to the side. “Is that amenable to you, Ms Haley?”

America’s representative nodded her head once, the movement crisp and sharp. “Of course.” She paused deliberately. “In the interest of fairness.”

They were dangerous people, Clark reminded himself. The lives of hundreds of millions, or even billions, rested in the hands of these people and their higher-ups. Yet, as he met their eyes, all Clark could think about were members of the Wayne Foundation’s board. They were all similarly selfish and petty, grasping desperately at some kind of power. 

Politicking seemed to be the same everywhere. It was almost disappointing.

He should be more nervous. He was just a farmboy reporter, after all, and the last time he had stepped in front of leaders of several countries to account for his actions, he had— _Anyway_ , he shouldn’t be feeling this way. But he really couldn’t find any tension within himself, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps it was the briefing yesterday that had set him so at ease.

Or maybe, just maybe, all of the efforts he had made over the past weeks were finally paying off and Superman’s skin finally fit well over his own. Maybe he really _could be_ Kal-El of Earth instead of just pretending to be him. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Clark watched as one of the guards put down a chair – richly upholstered in red velvet – at the corner of the stage before disappearing again. Bruce didn’t say a word, merely walked over and sat himself on it, crossing his ankles with his hands resting on his knees. His eyes had never once left the panel.

“Before we begin, I will like to extend an explanation, and an apology, to the countries of the world,” Diana said, voice resonant and chin firmly tucked in as her eyes scanned the room. “As the representative of Themyscira and the leader of the Justice League, I understand that many here are wondering why both Atlantis and Themyscira have hidden ourselves away until now.” She paused.

“The answer lies in the incidents that happened in the January of this year throughout the world; the attacks by the creatures named parademons.”

_It’s the first thing they will bring up_ , Bruce had cautioned Diana and Arthur the day before. _They will question your right to even exist as sovereign nations when they never knew about your existence before this year._

“Those creatures had a leader named Steppenwolf, and he sought three boxes which contained a great deal of power. Thousands of years ago, two of those boxes were given to Atlantis and Themyscira for safekeeping. As a result of this mission, both nations decided to seclude ourselves from the wider world.”

Her gaze was roving everywhere, speaking to the room as a whole. But it lingered longer on the representatives of China and Russia; on the most powerful of those men who would doubt her due to her sex alone.

“Now, through the efforts of the Justice League, Steppenwolf has been defeated. There are no more reasons why Atlantis and Themyscira would need to keep ourselves away. Hence,” she lowered her head in a shallow bow, “the two of us stand here today.”

“That does not answer the question of the right you have to demand anything of us,” Russia’s representative said, voice deliberately mild. “Especially since neither of your countries have been officially acknowledged by anyone yet.”

In the corner, Bruce’s fingers curled inwards. A substitute, Clark suspected, for the smirk he _knew_ that Bruce wanted to give.

“You’re under the assumption that we require your acknowledgement,” Diana said, voice light. Ignoring the aggressive tension that immediately permeated the room, she turned her head. “King Orin, if you will?”

Arthur stepped forward with one gliding motion that made him seem like he was annoyed by the antics of a fly even as his face didn’t move. “You’re all under a mistaken impression about the relationship our nations – and the League – have with the world,” he said. He didn’t do anything as overtly dramatic as to twirl his trident, rather extending his arm so it caught the light before he took another step. 

“Atlantis covers the major oceans of the world, ladies and gentlemen representatives, and its citizens have adapted over millennia to live in the depths of the ocean.” His lips curled into a smirk. “If you question our rights, then… What right have you, any of you, to have fed from and filthied the sovereign property of another nation? What right have you to stop us if we decided to _retaliate_?””

He raised his trident and slammed it down on the stage. The wood _cracked_ sharply, the sound cutting through the rising murmurs of protest throughout the room. When silence enveloped the space again, Arthur returned to his place.

“Throughout the months we have spent in the sight of the wider world, we have offered our aid,” Diana picked up the thread, arms crossed over the golden eagle on her armour. “Throughout the _years_ since Kal-El,” he nodded at Clark, “appeared, he has offered his aid. Despite questions, despite suspicions.” He paused and cocked his head slightly to the side. “He _died_ saving this world from the machinations of a human man.”

_They already think of all of you as threats,_ Bruce had said the day before. _It’s long past time that we show that we aren’t so stupid as to not notice._

“We protect and we aid, representatives, not out of obligation.” Diana continued. “But out of _choice_.” 

Her unspoken words rang out loudly in the wide room: _Do not make us regret it. Do not make us change our minds_.

“Perhaps we have started off on the wrong foot,” Nikki Haley said, standing up from her seat with her hands flat on the table. “But I believe there is a solution we can come to that will benefit all of us.”

“Please,” Diana swept out her hand. “Let us hear it.”

_They fear us simply because we are an entity they cannot control,_ Bruce had said, perched there on top of the desk in front of the screens in the League’s main control room. _Those in power crave control. They are used to having it. Security and safety come to them in the form of having the biggest stick in the room_.

“No offence to Mister Wayne there,” Haley said, nodding in Bruce’s direction, “but perhaps the United Nations would serve as a better financier for the League.”

_They don’t want all of you to be gone, not really,_ Bruce’s voice rang out in his head, a steady counterpoint to Haley. _You’re all like nuclear bombs in their eyes._

_And every permanent member of the Security Council has nuclear weapons in their disposal,_ Clark murmured in reply.

_Exactly,_ Bruce had smiled, showing all of his teeth.

“A committee will be set up for the League, providing you with the resources that you require to do your best work to aid the world,” Haley continued. “In return, we ask for information about your activities; information that we will, of course, release to the wider public.” She swept an arm out in the direction of the reporters. “In the same way that this meeting is public.”

Ah, here was Clark’s cue then. He lifted himself off the ground and floated forward until he was on the very edge of the stage. At the back of his mind, he counted the number of in-drawn breaths and barely-stifled flinches that reached his ears. He didn’t try to smile, instead turning on his x-ray vision slightly such that his eyes glowed blue.

“With all due respect, Madame Representative,” Clark said, flattening out his usual Midwest accent into something far more alien and remote, “we refuse.” He tipped his head to the side and tugged his lips up into an expression that both was and was not a smile. “For the same reasons the other Representatives took issue with Mister Wayne’s presence on this stage with us.” He spread out his hands.

“A conflict of interests.” 

To Haley’s credit, she didn’t even flinch. “I’m afraid I do not understand, Superman,” she said, her hand trailing lightly on the edge of the desk as she walked down its length. “The United Nations is a coalition of the world’s countries. Financing a group of people with,” she paused, “certain abilities for the benefit of the world… Is that not merely what is right and natural for it to do?”  
_  
_ “I am Kal-El of Earth, Madame Representative,” Clark said, pasting on a smile that he knew jarred greatly in contrast to his glowing eyes. “As such, I certainly understand how certain countries will contribute more in terms of finances – due to their ability to do so – and therefore we, as the League, will be obliged to…” He paused. “Pay attention to issues of the world accordingly.”

“What are you implying, Superman?” China’s representative asked, one eyebrow hiking up to his hairline.

“This meeting is predicated on a case of human trafficking that the League has involved themselves in,” Clark reminded, still with that same eerie smile. “One that goes against the policies and philosophies of at least three permanent members of the Security Council.”

Silence. In his ear, Barry whistled lowly. “Spill the tea, Supes,” he said, the background crackling with electricity because he was definitely buzzing with excitement. “Spill it all over them.” __  
  
Slowly, Nebenzya straightened. “You’re treading on dangerous territory here, Superman,” he said, voice very soft.

Arthur slammed his trident down onto the floor of the stage. The noise thundered through the entire room, rumbling in tandem with the waters that burst from the base of the golden metal, swirling twice around the staff before vanishing. 

“Precisely,” Arthur drawled, “our point.”  
_  
_ Diana smiled. “It is a generous offer, Madame Representative of the United States,” she said, inclining her head. “But I’m afraid that we have to decline.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” a different voice spoke up. No, not different— it was the Secretary-General himself, seated this time with his hands steepled together in front of him. “Are you here to threaten the leaders of the nations of the world, Justice League?”

In the corner, Bruce closed his eyes and leaned further back into his chair. His posture was one of complete relaxation.

“In the Universal Declaration of Human Rights,” Clark said, “it is stated: ‘disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind.’” He allowed the smile to fade. Then he switched off the glow in his eyes. “‘And the advent of a world in which human beings shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has been proclaimed as the highest aspiration of the common people.’”

Diana stepped forward. “We, as the Justice League, want nothing more than to make that into reality.” Her eyes focused specifically on a few members of the Security Council – China, Russia, America – before sweeping over the entire room. “For every human being in every country of the world.” 

“We request,” Arthur continued, moving to Clark’s right again, “for the aid of all countries so that we may succeed.”

“That is not an answer,” the Secretary-General pointed out. 

“You look upon us as threats,” Clark said, spreading out his hands. He let that statement sink in as he took the final step forward to the very edge of the stage, placing enough weight on his feet that the _tha-thump_ of them landing on the wood resounded throughout the room. “But we do not desire to be. As King Orin had said…” He glanced to Arthur just once before returning his gaze to his audience.

“I have died once to keep the world safe. What reason have I have to endanger it? What reason have _any_ of us, who have been working so hard to protect it?”

Haley was opening her mouth, but Diana shook her head. “Our headquarters lie on American soil. Our financier is American. As these are necessities for our mission, we hope that they will not be held against us.” Her smile widened. “Madame Representative of the United States.”

While she was speaking, Clark was already moving. He stopped in front of Bruce and held out a hand. _This_ was part of the plan, he reminded himself as Bruce opened his eyes and tilted his head up. Clark couldn’t get distracted; _shouldn’t_ , really.

But it was difficult to keep his mind from shorting out when Bruce placed his hand into his.

“I don’t even need cameras to know that the sex eyes are back on,” Barry said in a very loud whisper. “I don’t even know what is going on to understand that sex eyes switched on.”

“With that,” Diana said, and Clark really applauded her professionalism because her voice didn’t even waver an inch, “the League will now take our leave.”

As Arthur lifted his trident, water rushed up from the base of it. Clark pulled Bruce closer, wrapping his face with his cape. Right as the whirlpool rose high enough to envelop all of them, Clark checked that Bruce’s arms were properly secured around his own neck. Then he grabbed Diana and Arthur by their arms and went out the big front doors of the Assembly room, then out of the building and _up_ to the roof of it. He dropped everyone off there, and then went back to close the doors.

Arthur couldn’t actually teleport people via water – not _yet_ , according to him – but it served their purposes well to pretend that he could.  
_  
We can’t stay to discuss,_ Bruce had argued the day before. _We need to leave in as dramatic a manner as possible. It’s the best way to ensure that they get the message that we’re not beholden to them._

_But we_ are _,_ Barry had protested, sounding rather bewildered. _Our powers are for their benefit. We’re not going to be— we’re_ not _going to be threats._  
_  
He’s right, Barry,_ Arthur had grunted, crossing his arms and shaking his head. _I hate to admit it, but fear’s a good motivator. Fucking feudal of a method – guy with biggest sword gets his way – but it’s one that works._

_Not permanently,_ Clark had cut in, thinking about kryptonite. Thinking about Bruce himself, and the first time they had met. _They’re not going to let us have our way for long._  
_  
That’s why we investigate them for actions they take to threaten us,_ Bruce had said, voice very quiet. _That’s why we keep helping people. But we can’t play on their terms. Not if we’re hoping to make a change._

_To become a tyrant to prevent further tyranny,_ Diana had muttered, eyes closed. _The irony is sickening_.

Below them, the representatives were in an uproar, languages and raised voices overlaying each other into an incomprehensible mess. Clark dragged in a breath through his teeth – without letting his chest expand so much that he would jar Bruce in his arms – before he focused his hearing on the steady thrumming beat of Bruce’s heart. He knew he should be listening in for the initial reactions to their actions so the team could plan for their next action, but he couldn’t right now. 

He just couldn’t.

Bruce was tapping on the screen of his phone; Clark could hear the quiet sparks and whirrs of electricity as the mechanisms that prevented all video and audio of them to be taken was switched on. Once that was done, Bruce nodded to him, and Clark set him down.

The rooftop was a dull place, Clark noted; the few potted plants here and there couldn’t quite brighten up the grey concrete floor or the beige-coloured frames of the fences and the walls that rose from the floor to create the box-like stairwell entrances. Honestly, he would’ve thought that a prestigious building like the UN headquarters would’ve spent more time beautifying its rooftop, especially when they had put in so much effort and resources into looking modern and luxurious with the glass panels.

Then again, most people didn’t look up.

“—never allowed to handle comms when we’re in important meetings, Flash,” Arthur was saying when Clark dropped back in to the rooftop of the building. “Or, well, even being _on_ it.”

“Uh,” Barry said, sounding sheepish. “Sorry?”

“In any case, everything had been broadcasted live,” Victor said, voice in a monotone. “Internationally, even, though most of those have a bit of a delay for the translators to work.”

“That’s good,” Bruce said, crossing his arms and leaning back against one wall. “Tiffany will send out a statement later in the afternoon.” He sighed quietly. “Hopefully that will help mould people’s perceptions in the shape we want.”

“I…” Barry started. Quiet electricity crackled over the line – Barry fidgeting so much that he was tapping into the Speed Force again – before he sighed. “It sounds dumb, but I really don’t like this.”

“Don’t like what?” Arthur asked.

“We’re not the bad guys, right?” Barry asked. “I mean— I don’t think we are. I think that we’re trying our best to help the world. To help _people_.” He took another breath. In the background, Clark could hear rapid-fire drumming of fingers on metal; the worktable at the headquarters was gaining another dent. “I don’t see why we can’t… Why we couldn’t have stayed to convince them of that. Why we have to— to show off our power, to create fear. Isn’t that going to make them think the worst of us?”

Clark closed his eyes. Without moving from his spot near the edge of the rooftop, he folded his legs and dropped to sit down with his forehead against his knees. Barry could’ve just taken the words right out of his own mouth.

Still, he didn’t regret what he had done. He had agreed to this knowing exactly what it had meant and what it would mean in the future. 

“Thing is,” Barry continued, “I kind of get why we’re doing this? I get why all this PR stuff is necessary. But controlling our image like this… practically threatening the UN… that just seems more like the stuff that villains do. Why can’t we just let our actions speak for ourselves?”

“Because this is the only way that our good intentions can matter more than our power,” Diana said. “As counterintuitive as it might sound.”  
_  
_ She had walked over to the fences as Barry spoke, and was now standing in front of one with her eyes fixed upon the sky through the diamonds of the fence. Slowly, one of her hands rose, and she closed around it, squeezing.

“People said that the Age of Heroes would never come again,” she continued, throwing a brief, mirthless smile at Bruce over her shoulder. “That’s patently untrue, because here all of us stand; heroes.” Pausing, she sighed, and tipped her head back even further. “But people have believed in that for so long that they could no longer recognise heroes when they appear in front of them.”

“That’s not true,” Barry protested. “The people we help—” 

“It’s a damned big world nowadays,” Arthur interrupted. He was standing in the middle of the rooftop, looking out in the direction of the East River with his hand white-knuckled around his trident’s staff. “How many people can we save? How many of those people would choose to speak? How many of _those_ will be listened to?”

“Not many,” Clark finished for him. He gave Arthur a wan smile when the other man turned towards him, shrugging slightly. “And those with doubts and fears would always scream louder for their voices to be acknowledged.” 

Though he appreciated Bruce thinking of him enough to remind him of this last night, he hadn’t actually needed it. He still remembered Nairobi; remembered how quickly he had been condemned with just one perceived mistake, the rest of his deeds quickly swept away. A lot of that had been his own fault – he should have heard the bomb if he had just been paying closer attention – but most of it, he knew now, had been out of his control.

“Yet Barry has a point,” Diana said. She had turned away from the sky now, facing all of them with her arms crossed as she leaned against the fence. “It would be better if we could be like Achilles, knowing for sure that we would become legends the moment we march off to war. But we do not have that privilege.”

Briefly, Clark wondered if she was talking about Achilles as they understood him – as a legend, a mythological figure – or as a friend she once knew. He wouldn’t put it past her, really. 

Then Bruce snorted under his breath, pulling Clark’s attention back to the conversation. “If Trojans had won the war,” he said, “then Achilles would have been painted nothing more than a fool, Hector the true hero, and Paris’s stealing of Helen would have been seen as a rescue.” He paused. “Homer’s epic would have been very different.”

Diana raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

“Winners control the narrative,” Bruce said, sweeping an arm out. “But, more importantly, we can no longer rely on becoming legends because, in place of Homer, we have Twitter.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let me just put it this way: despite all sense, despite all logic, there are still people who believe that the world is flat and all images and calculations that prove otherwise are falsified.”

There was a long silence. “Oh,” Barry said eventually.

“Besides,” Clark added, “Luthor used exactly the same methods against Bruce and me the last time, and I’d really rather not go through that again.” He spread out his hands. “In terms of practicality, acknowledging the fear that people have of us and forcibly switching the focus on our intentions… That pre-empts people’s attempts to paint us in a way to benefit them.”

Taking a breath, he dropped backwards, halfway hanging off the building while staring up at the sky. After a moment, he let himself hover a couple of inches from the roof’s surface so he wouldn’t be lying on top of his cape. “It’s probably still going to happen,” he said. “But that’s not something we can stop. People think what they need to think.”

It wasn’t something he liked to admit; just because he would _prefer_ it if people truly saw him. But—

“That’s what happens when you have free will,” Bruce said, now standing right beside Clark and looking down at him with the smallest of quirks on his lips. “If you get to choose what you want to become, then others get to think what they wish to, too. No matter how inconvenient.”

Clark lifted his arm, hand flopping at the wrist. Bruce’s smile widened before he gripped onto it, tugging, and Clark let himself be pulled up to his feet. Or, well, _kind of_ ; he was still hovering, but that was mostly because a breeze was coming in now from the river, and, like this, the ends of his cape could tease at Bruce’s ankles.

“Inconvenient mostly for you,” he pointed out. “You’re still the one doing the most work.”

Bruce opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Victor interrupted him by loudly clearing his throat.

“ _And_ ,” Victor said in a strangely resonant voice, “we’re right back to zero.”

“We need to start having one of those number cards for this,” Barry said. “Or one of those big whiteboards. Right here in the middle of the main meeting room.”

“No need,” Diana said, shaking her head. “The number won’t ever get high enough that we’ll start forgetting it.”

Barry clucked his tongue. “It’s not for reminding us, Diana,” he said, drawling out her name. “It’s to make sure that they _know_.” 

Blinking, Clark cocked his head to the side. They were talking about him – well, him and Bruce – but… “Know what?” 

“We’re starting this counting system,” Arthur said, glancing at them out of the corner of his eye. “Days since the last time the two of you flirted with each other right in front of us.” 

“Oh,” Clark said. He blinked at Bruce. “Did you know about this?”

“I had an inkling,” Bruce said, voice dry. After a moment, his hand released Clark’s wrist. “Do you mind?”

He should, Clark realised. Not that his teammates were making fun of him, but he wasn’t _flirting_ with Bruce and yet that was what they took it to be. He should mind, too, that Arthur and Diana were staring at him now, clearly anticipating his embarrassment; Arthur, in particular, wasn’t even trying to hide it, with that smirk on his lips. 

But he couldn’t even think of minding. Maybe it was because they were his friends, now, and getting teased was what happened when one had friends. Or, more likely, it was that he… He didn’t mind such things anymore. He no longer needed to—

They were waiting for him, he realised suddenly. “I don’t mind,” he said. Then he tilted his head at Bruce. “You?”

“I’ve gotten used to this,” Bruce said. “At least I’m not being attacked on two different fronts, this time.”

Diana huffed a laugh under her breath, pushing herself away from the railing. “That’s a lead-in to something,” she pointed out.

Clark, who knew _exactly_ who Bruce was talking about, had to stifle a smile as Bruce turned to her with a shrug. “Well,” Bruce said. “I’m _thinking_ of inviting all of you back to the lake house.” Something in his eyes amended those last few words to _the Cave_ , and Diana’s nod showed that she understood. Despite the equipment still being used, Bruce was still being careful. 

“There’s someone who wants to meet you,” Bruce finished. “Two someones, actually.”

“Hah,” Arthur crossed his arms and hiked up an eyebrow. “That’s a surprise.”

“They have been helping us with a few things, here and there,” Bruce said. “And they said that they want to meet you after we’re finished with this.” He spread out his hands. “We’re mostly finished with this.” 

“There’s a problem,” Clark interrupted when a thought came to him. “Your car is down there,” he motioned towards the far-off ground below with his chin, “so, how are you going to get back?”

A corner of Bruce’s lips tugged upwards. “Well,” he said slowly, “I was hoping that you would fly me.” He glanced down to where Clark’s cape was still brushing over his calves. “Or get my car to a place where I can actually get into it.”

“Tell you what,” Clark said, grinning despite himself. “I can do both.”

“Half an hour at the Cave,” Arthur interrupted suddenly, walking straight in between the two of them towards the other side of the rooftop. “I want to meet these people, but like hell do I subject myself to the two of you when I don’t have to.”

_Sorry_ was at the tip of Clark’s tongue. But he swallowed it back and instead raised a hand, waggling his fingers at Arthur. Arthur rolled his eyes, but he was laughing even as he threw himself off the rooftop’s edge, aiming for the river.

“Guess that’s the decision made for all of us, then,” Victor said, sounding amused. “Flash and I might take a bit longer than half an hour, by the way.”

“Still working on going at full speed when dragging Victor along,” Barry cut in to explain. 

“We’ll wait for you,” Diana said before Clark could even open his mouth. “Victor, can you switch off the comms now?” She paused. “And switch them back on in half an hour.”

“Uh,” Victor said, sounding rather confused. “Sure thing.”

A quiet _beep_. Then the sound of breathing – in various rhythms – from the earpiece went silent and was replaced instead with static that was lower and softer than the crackle of Barry’s Speed Force.

Diana’s hand dropped from her ear back to her side. She levelled a stare at Bruce and Clark for moments long enough that Clark was almost tempted to fidget. Beside him, Bruce’s heartbeat remained steady as he met her eyes.

Then, she smiled. “You’ve grown,” she said. “Both of you.”

Most of the time, Diana acted the age she looked – late twenties, early thirties at the most. But, sometimes – like now, even more than when she had been talking about Achilles like he was a personal friend – she acted like the age she _was_. It was something in her eyes; a sudden agelessness that reminded Clark that Diana, unlike the rest of them, was a true immortal. Not just a person who wouldn’t get injured and die from the same wounds as the human population, but someone with the wisdom and knowledge that the moniker implied.

“It’s been long enough,” Bruce said.

“There are some who never grow, no matter how quickly the river of time rushes past their forms,” Diana replied. The heels of her boots clicked against the concrete floor as she headed for the rooftop’s edge. “Some, like the heroes of yore. Some, like the gods.”

Turning her head, she flashed them a bright-eyed smile. “I’m glad that neither of you are like that.” Without another word, she leaped off the building.

Clark blinked at her departure. At the edge of his hearing, he could hear the shouts of people as, presumably, Diana landed right in front of them. When he floated close to and peered over the side, he saw her nod towards the people around her before she headed for the gates. 

The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea had for Moses. Clark blinked. Didn’t they plan to avoid the public? 

“She’s something else,” Bruce said.

That was an understatement. Clark’s lips twitched as he looked over his shoulder at Bruce. Bruce tipped his head slightly to the side before he reached out and nudged Clark lightly on the shoulder. 

“My car?”

Even that brief touch had left a trail of heat behind. Clark shook his head. “Right,” he said, and flew down to pick it up.

Unlike Diana, he made sure to move quickly enough that he couldn’t be seen. Just a flash of red and blue and a disappearing car. 

***

The whitewash on the ceiling was new enough to practically sparkle in the mid-afternoon sunlight spilling through the half-opened window. Overhead, the ceiling light was switched off, and Clark could only hear the crackle of electricity travelling through the power lines if he concentrated; the bricks were heavy enough to muffle the sound almost entirely.

In all honesty, Clark couldn’t fault this place; it looked homely enough, filled as it was with second-hand furniture that had been so thoroughly cleaned that even Clark’s nose could barely pick up traces of dirt, mould, or any other unpleasant smells. Even though Clark suspected that all of the other rooms in the building probably looked the same, it didn’t resemble a hotel room. 

“I’d like to think that I’ve settled in, at least a little bit,” Ramona said. She settled the kettle back on top of the shelf and picked up the two now-filled mugs to bring them over. “Sometimes my back still aches, but…” She huffed a laugh under her breath, setting the cups down on the small table and sitting down. “Better to have it hurt because of cleaning than anything else.”

Running a fingertip over the rim of the mug – chamomile tea in a bag, from one of those supermarket brands – Clark met her eyes. “You still haven’t told me what you’re working as, exactly,” he reminded.

“Oh, right,” Ramona said, ducking her head down. “They found me a job as one of the custodians in the Wayne Foundation building. It’s…” she frowned slightly, and then pointed east. “Somewhere over there, I think.”

Clark’s lips twitched. “We’re in midtown,” he said. “The Foundation building is over to the north,” he jerked his head in that direction, “over there.”

Blinking, Ramona shifted her finger before dropping it to her side. “Sorry,” she said, voice sheepish. “I’ve never been good at these things.”

“It’s a new city,” Clark reminded. Then he lowered his eyes, watching the steam curling up from the tea before he asked, “Has anyone given you any trouble so far?”

“No,” Ramona replied immediately. Maybe a little too quickly, because she dropped her eyes down to stare into the depths of the mug again. “I mean, my supervisor is a very nice person. I suspect that she knows about…” she bit her lip and made an aborted wave, gesturing around the room, “but I don’t think she has told anyone else?”

“Do you think she will?” Clark asked. “Tell people about your background, I mean.”

“I try to not think about it,” she said, gaze shifting to the window and growing distant. “I think… I think everyone already knows. It’s… It’s hard to hide.” She looked down at her tea. “I’m just… I’m thankful that they haven’t said anything, that’s all.” 

Reaching out, Clark brushed his fingers lightly over her wrist. At the moment, a sudden sense of déjà vu struck him. 

Which didn’t make sense, because this place didn’t resemble at all that broken-down room in Suicide Slum. So much had changed; so much was different. Ramona even had a new job, and Clark now had the excuse of the League personally rescuing her to appear as Superman to talk to her colleagues if they ever bullied her. So, why…

_It’s my fault. It’s my choice_.

He took a breath. It only didn’t shake because of all of the effort he exerted. 

“You shouldn’t be thankful for that,” Clark said. Ramona was looking at him with wide eyes, he realised; he had been too loud.

Another breath. It didn’t calm him down. “I mean, you’ve gone through a great deal already in trying to make something out of the life you have been given,” he said, trying his best to gentle his voice and not knowing if he succeeded. “The least that people can do is to not make it even more difficult.” 

Ramona blinked at him. Then she huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. “That’s the opposite of what someone told me,” she said.

“Someone?” Clark cocked his head to the side.

“Her name is Ileana,” Ramona told him. “She… she left a few days ago, to go back to her parents in Bucharest.” She paused. On the table, her fingers linked with and unlinked from each other. “She told me that I was being stupid, staying here.” She bit her lip. “That… that no one here would be kind to me. Not because of what I have been— what I’ve been forced to do, but because of what I am.”

Opening his mouth, Clark wracked his mind for words to assure her that people would be kind. But he couldn’t find any. He could tell her that they _should_ be, but that, he knew far too well, was just cold comfort.

“I want to believe that she’s wrong,” Ramona continued, now poking listlessly at her mug. It was printed with the Wayne Enterprise logo, Clark noticed. “But people don’t really have an obligation to be good or nice to someone else, right?” She closed her eyes, and her voice was very, very soft as she said:

“Even Superman said that.”

Clark froze. “What,” he forced through his suddenly closing throat. “What do you mean?”

“There was a meeting of the League with the UN just two days ago,” Ramona said, peering up at him from beneath her lashes. “It was being played _everywhere_ , so I thought that you would’ve heard—” 

“I heard,” Clark interrupted her. “I mean, I heard about it. But I didn’t think what they meant was that people shouldn’t be good or kind.” Hadn’t they meant the exact opposite?

“It’s hard to not think that way when—” Ramona stopped. She shook her head. “No one _needs_ to be nice. They can choose to be, but…” She wrapped her hands around the mug and hunched her shoulders inward. “Why would anyone choose to be?”

“Superman chooses to be,” Clark reminded softly. “All of the Justice League does. Despite all of their power.”

“Ileana said that everyone’s actions are motivated by their own selfish gains,” Ramona said. “Maybe… maybe that’s why the League are good people. They are already so powerful that they don’t need to do anything to get more power and so decided to help others instead.” She paused. “But no one else is like that.”  
_  
What use is a god for inspiration when humans will hold on to the excuse that, as a god, they are perfect, and thus their heights could never be reached?_ Did Bruce ever, in his life, ever got tired of being right?

Suddenly, Clark remembered just why Ileana’s name had sounded so familiar to him. That was the woman who had spoken to Matches, wasn’t it? The one whose emails to her parents had given them the first lead to find the human trafficking rings and, later, the mob group that had orchestrated both her and Ramona’s kidnapping and entrapment in America. That was the woman whom Matches had met with. At the café right down the street from here.

Never mind that; Clark shelved the information away to investigate later. He focused on Ramona now, lifting his mug to take a sip of the chamomile while watching her.

“Do you really believe that?”

Ramona’s shoulders shook. “I don’t know what to believe,” she told him, staring out of the window again.

After a long moment, she sighed. “A friend of mine – her name is Ioana – she asked Mister Wayne to help her plead for mercy,” she whispered, voice so quiet that Clark had to lean in to hear her better. “Not for herself, but for her pimp to get a lesser punishment because he was kind to her. But… But I know Eduardo, and I know that he wasn’t kind, not really. But I didn’t want to tell Ioana that. I didn’t know _how_ to tell her that. That’s why I helped her.” She sipped at her mug without looking at it.

“Doesn’t that prove Ileana’s point? That no one does anything for anyone else except for their own sake?”

_You could have done nothing_ , Clark wanted to point out. _You could’ve lied or made up some sort of excuse. You could’ve just refused and not given any reason at all_. But that, Clark knew, wouldn’t have helped.

If he had learned anything over the past few months, it was that people’s troubles were rarely what they seemed to be on the surface. Not Bruce’s, not his own. Not Ramona’s.

“Why are you so bothered about this?” he asked. 

Ramona’s hands froze where they were curling around the mug. She closed her eyes. “Ileana said that someone came to talk to her before… before everything happened,” she said. “She said that that man lied to her for the entire time that she knew him. That, in the end, he was just working for his own interests, and helping her just happened to be part of it.” 

_She knew that was a lie_ , Clark thought. He had heard that conversation between Matches and Ileana, so he knew that for a fact. But Ramona couldn’t have known that. To her, Ileana’s word about her own experiences were the truth.

“You came to me to write an article,” Ramona said. Her eyes were still closed, but her fingers had gone white-knuckled around the plastic cup. “You didn’t… you didn’t need to do anything else.” She bit her lip. When she finally opened her eyes, she fixed them on the table in front of her. “You don’t even need to have come today.”

_Oh_. A part of Clark wanted to feel insulted, at least vaguely, that she was doubting his intentions. But, in truth, he wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t been expecting this when he first came – he hadn’t been listening into this building at all, and he didn’t have Bruce’s ability or wont to predict the actions of others – but now that he was faced with it…

Given all that she had gone through, he would be more surprised if she hadn’t doubted him.

“I’m sorry,” Ramona continued. “You helped me a lot and I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t think that you have ulterior motives, but… But Ileana’s words just won’t get out of my head, and I—”

“It’s alright,” Clark interrupted. He didn’t touch her; instead, he rested his hand on the table just a few inches away from her, in ready reach whenever she wanted reassurance from him. “I’m not angry or anything.” He paused. “In fact, I’m pretty glad that you told me this.”

“You are?” Ramona’s head jerked up. But she only met his eyes for the briefest of moments before looking away again, this time to the floor.

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. “Because it means that,” he paused and reconsidered his words, because _I don’t want you to be grateful to me_ wasn’t entirely the truth, “you can bear to think about and consider what happened before. Maybe, to you, that’s not a good thing, but it is to me.” 

“Why?”

Clark shrugged. “Because it means that those memories are becoming a little less scary,” he said. He had enough terrible memories that he had been avoiding – and was still avoiding – thinking about to have the confidence to say that, at least.

After a moment, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “But as for why I helped…” A thought struck him, and he barely swallowed back the laugh when he said, “Because I could, and I wanted to.”

“Huh?” _Finally_ , Ramona met his eyes, her own wide with confusion. “Because you—” 

“Because I could, and I wanted to,” Clark repeated. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish because he was still relying on Bruce’s words, but they _were_ the best he could find. “Maybe that’s a selfish reason.”

“But why would you _want_ to?” she asked, half-rising out of her chair. “That’s what I don’t understand. That’s why I—”

“I don’t know either,” Clark said, because _I think I have a pathological need to help people_ wasn’t very helpful, and _when I helped you, I thought it was necessary for me to save everyone_ required explanations that he couldn’t exactly give as Clark Kent. “I wanted to. I felt like I _had_ to.” He paused, thinking over all that Ramona had said, everything she had told him.

“Like you felt that you had to help your family,” he said. “Like how you helped your friend Ioana, even though you disagreed with what she was doing and could have done nothing.”

Ramona didn’t say a word. She was only looking at him, lip drawn between her teeth and hands clenching together in her lap.

Clark sighed, turning away from her to stare out of the window. “I can’t tell you why it is that people are willing to help each other,” he said softly. “I can’t know when someone’s reasons were selfish, or when they were not.” Leaning further back against his chair, he chased the far-off sound of that familiar heartbeat and let it fade to the back of his mind. Easier to centre himself, this way.

“I only know that it… it makes me happy that to see you here,” he said. “To drop by and see that your life is better now.” He paused. “That I have…”

Bruce’s cruel words came back to him: _You want to save just this one girl because it’ll be an_ egotrip _._ _If there’s an organisation, then you can’t claim to be the one who saved her. Then you can’t look at her and pat yourself on the back and say that, yes, you saved this one, it’s to_ your _credit and no one else’s, and no one but you could’ve done it._  
  
Maybe Bruce had gone too far, with those words. But there was still a kernel of truth in them; one that Clark could no longer avoid. Not when he was sitting in front of Ramona like this. 

“That I have made a difference in someone’s life,” he finished. Sliding his gaze to the side, he offered Ramona a lopsided smile. “Do you think that’s a selfish reason?” 

Ramona drew circles on the rim of her mug. “I…” She stopped. Then, to Clark’s surprise, she huffed out a laugh and shook her head. “I think it’s easier if I don’t think about this anymore.”

Cocking his head to the side, Clark picked up his tea. “What do you mean?”

“It’ll be easier if I don’t consider people’s intentions,” Ramona said. “That I assume that their actions are motivated by good reasons.” She paused and laughed again. “I think that Ileana would say that it’s stupid of me to do so, but… It’s tiring.” Her shoulders hunched inward again, and she closed her eyes. “Maybe if I assume that people are good, then maybe they would really be.” 

She lifted her head, giving him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know that it’s stupid, but if I keep thinking about this, I’ll just be going around in circles.”

Slowly, Clark shook his head. “It’s not stupid,” he refuted. “Thinking like that is…” Bruce would say it was _risky_. Arthur would just laugh and shake his head. Victor would sigh, because Victor, who had information on his fingertips whether he wanted it or not, no longer owned the privilege of ignorance.

“You’re very brave,” he said finally.

“No, I don’t think so,” Ramona shook her head. “It’s… kind of you to say so, but I have to think this way just to be able to go on.” She tried that smile again; it still didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m terrible, aren’t I? It’s been months since I got to escape from that place, but I still…”  
_  
_ Clark didn’t speak for long moments. There were many things he wanted to say to reassure her, to make her feel better. But he knew now that those were just temporary solutions; nothing he said could truly convince her. At best, whatever boost he could give would only last until he left the room. 

At worst, she would feel burdened by the need to make him feel better.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that you’re very brave to still carry on. To keep trying. Despite everything.”

Ramona closed her eyes. She nodded.

He understood now why that sense of déjà vu had come upon him, now. The room might be different, the circumstances might have changed, but to Ramona… To her, she was still there, in that room. Not trapped by doors or walls or enforcers standing right outside, but by her own memories. Her own need to survive.

Once, Clark had looked at her and seen himself. Now…

Draining his tea, he stood up. “I’m glad I came,” he said softly. “I’m glad you agreed to see me. But I think…”

“Yeah,” Ramona said, eyes still closed and body unmoving. “We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

He was a remnant of the past for her. Something that she had to leave behind in order to move forward. Clark nodded.

But before he could move to the door, Ramona reached out. Her fingers brushed over his wrist. Her eyes were bright, tears glittering in the corners from the sunlight streaming into the room.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Then she swallowed, and said, “Clark.”

This had to be the first time she had ever used his name. Clark gave her a small smile, his other hand reaching over to ghost lightly over the back of hers. “You’re welcome, Ramona,” he said.

She let go. He let the room.

Outside the building, Clark turned back and stared at it. He could identify her window from here, but he refused to switch on his x-ray vision or to focus his hearing. Instead, he only stared at it, wondering at the lightness within himself. 

He had expected anger or frustration; expected _something_ to hook around his heart and threaten to tear it apart. Because he had helped to bring Ramona out of that terrible place, and yet its shadows still lingered in her eyes and filled her mind, and there was nothing to could do to get rid of them. Because he had done all he could, yet sorrow seemed to weigh on her even heavier now than it had before.

But there was nothing. His breathing was still easy.

_It’s my fault. It’s my choice_. He knew what that meant, now.

Clark turned his back on the building and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to members of the UN Council for possibly misrepresenting them. I keep asking myself why I keep writing these big political scenes when I, personally, have no personal experience with big political things. Until now, I have no answer except that I apparently like stabbing myself in the face.
> 
> People take time to heal, especially when they had been stuck in the same horrific conditions for a long time. And healing is, unfortunately, never linear; most times, things get worse before they get better.


	15. moving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The League has a meeting with two of its honorary members in attendance. Clark and Bruce come together.
> 
> (Two days late. But better that than a week, I hope.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Talk about impending death and grief. Then: porn. Finally, porn. Some of you have waited something like 130k words for non-problematic porn, and I finally deliver. The porn has some pretty overt D/s elements but, like in paroxysms of safety, no BDSM is involved. The porn also 1) is rather under-negotiated and at the same time very idealised, and b) involves breathplay and bondage. Don’t worry: it is also 1000% consensual on both sides.
> 
> This chapter is one extremely long scene that is sixteen thousand words. It’s broken up into sections marked by POV switches between Bruce and Clark. Once again, I recommend taking breaks while reading.

“It’s a mixture of different kinds of technology,” Victor explained. “Human, Kryptonian, and whatever it is that the motherbox is made of.” He paused for a moment before he scratched the back of his neck. “All of that building on the foundation of … well, what’s used in Themyscira for their own shielding.”

“Magic,” Diana finished for him, voice placid but eyes sparkling with humour. “And not the form that Arthur C. Clarke mentioned; not incredibly advanced technology. True magic that comes from the gods themselves.”

They were all standing in a row at the edge of the lot in the suburb of Metropolis, facing what seemed to be a completely empty space. Clark reached his hand forward, fingers skimming through the air. His ears picked up electricity-like energy buzzing as the shielding kicked into life. Crisscrossing lines burst into being at the corner of his enhanced vision, some of them overlaying his wrist. Still, he felt nothing, and when he clenched his hand into a fist, his fingers wrapped around air without even the slightest spark teasing his nerves. 

“The same kind as what is used in Atlantis?” Arthur asked, sliding his gaze over to Diana while still trying to shake water out of his hair. He had arrived to the headquarters through the tunnel he had dug himself from Hob’s River – rising out of the water like a creature from legend – before the shielding had been switched on.

“I don’t know for sure,” Diana said, “but probably not. The millennia that have passed since Themyscira had contact with Atlantis has likely changed the natures of our magicks. Not to mention our very different environments.”

“You mean that we’re deep underwater and you’re not,” Arthur snorted. He narrowed his eyes in front of him for a moment before sticking his foot out past the border, wriggling it there a few times before taking the step forward. Lines closed again behind him and intersected on top of his body from the roots of his hair down to the soles of his feet.

The hum of machinery grew louder. 

“I still can’t see anything,” Arthur announced. “That’s going to be utterly bullshit to deal with.”

“Can you see it? What does it look like?”

“Hard to describe,” Clark answered, knowing the question was directed at him without having to turn around. “Some kind of lines around the borders that look like fences, except with squares instead of diamonds.” He tilted his head, focusing on Arthur. The lines shuddered in the air, growing brighter and brighter until he had to squeeze his eyes shut so he wouldn’t get a phantom headache. “I can’t even describe to you the colour. Much less what the kind of energy it’s using.”

Turning to the speaker, a young woman with red hair and a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles resting on her nose, he shrugged. “Sorry about that.”

“We were hoping to bypass your vision,” Barbara Gordon told him, folding her arms and tapping the fingers of one hand on the bicep of the other arm; a motion that was entirely like Bruce’s. “But apparently not.”

“Might be because you’re using Kryptonian technology,” Clark suggested. “And I can see it because I’m attuned to it. Due to coming from the same place and everything.”

Humming under her breath, Barbara cocked her head. “Hmm… Given that no one else has said that they can see anything, the only possible security breach would come from Kryptonians.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “And that’s a small worry, I think.”

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. He stuck his hand past the border again, wriggling his fingers. “Though, I can still hear what’s going on inside,” he added helpfully. “The generators for the solar panel and water tunnel, the computers, the antennae for our Internet connection…” He cocked his head to the side. “The air moving around the entire space. The rattles of the glass windows from the breeze.” He flashed Barbara a small smile. “Not seeing it isn’t going to stop me from knowing that something is behind this wall.” He tapped the air in front of him. “Not at all.”

“Hah,” Victor said, looking thoughtful. “We’ll have to look into shielding for sound, then.”

“Uh,” Dick interrupted suddenly, raising his hand. “Can I just interrupt here to ask something important?” He didn’t wait for a response before barrelling on, words nearly tripping over each other as he said, “Why the hell is no one taking issue with the fact that magic exists?”

Beside him, Barry slowly raised a hand. Dick high-fived him without even turning in his direction.

“There is literally a demigod standing here right among us,” Bruce said, speaking up for the first time since they had all gathered here outside the headquarters. “Arthur lives underwater and can breathe there without any sign of gills. Victor’s entire body is made of machinery that has no visible energy source, and he has just made shielding for us that makes use of a kind of energy that not even Clark can identify.”

He smirked at his son. “And magic is what you’ve decided to take issue with.”

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it and sighed heavily. “Look, I come from literal street crime to this,” he pointed out. “It’s a hell of a headtrip.”

“Try working with magic,” Barbara told him, voice very dry. “That fucks with my head even more than the existence of water emoji over there.”

Arthur threw a middle finger back at her without turning around. “Y’all,” he drawled out, eyes turned up to the sky. “I don’t have the whole damned day.”

Oh, right. They weren’t just here for the debut of the shielding; that was only one part of the event. Clark scanned his surroundings before he saw the small pots of white paint and varnish and the paintbrushes that had been tucked away near a tree; Bruce had brought them with him from Gotham along with the semicircles of thick, heavy wood and the metal pieces.

He zipped over to pick up the paint and varnish while the others picked up the rest of the materials. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Diana gently shove Bruce out of the way before grabbing both wooden parts with one hand and shoving them under her arm. Bruce rolled his eyes, but at least this time he didn’t try to argue. Or even protest.

Learning, Diana had said, the last time they had met. The truth of it came out in small ways.

They stepped past the border of the lot together, attuned to each other well enough to follow a script that didn’t need to be spoken aloud, much less written. A beep came from Victor’s direction, followed by Barbara’s murmured, “Authentication start.”

“That’s going to be troublesome,” Arthur noted. “If we need either one of you – or hell, both – before we can come in.”

“We’re not that careless,” Barbara said, shoving her hands into her pockets. “The machinery would already be picking up your biometrics by now. By the time we reach the doors, you will have access.” She paused. “Diana is the only one who will be given the ability to remove people from the database, by the way. Victor and I won’t have it.”

“Hah,” Arthur said, but Clark was no longer listening, because the air was shivering in front of him. A moment more, then Barbara’s words were proven true: the headquarters appeared in front of them.

The grey concrete had been painted over with a soft shade of blue resembling the sky on a bright, cloudless day, the colour darkening as it approached the frames of the windows, which had been covered with frosted glass. The ground in front of and around the building was carpeted by thick grass and rich soil, with pieces of stone that laid out a path towards the front door. 

“These came from Themyscira,” Diana said, tapping her toe against one stone as she stepped over it. “The remnants of what was destroyed during Steppenwolf’s attack.”

Clark nodded. He continued looking around.

Encircling the opening of the underground hangar – the darker, artificial green of the solar panels gave it away – was a wide moat that bubbled slightly as water from Hob’s River rushed in and gravity pulled it away back into the river through another tunnel. Below it, he could hear the staccato whirrs of the generators and the pumps as they worked.

Steel beams rose up at the four corners of the lot, the grey metal shimmering dully in the late afternoon sunlight. Exposed wires wound around them, and at several points, crisscrossing lines burst out to meet those from the beam opposite. When Clark tilted his head up, he could see the lines above his head as well, curving upwards as if following the shape of an invisible dome.

“Barry suggested the shape,” Victor murmured when he realised what Clark was looking at; what Clark could see. “He said that it reminds him of science fiction novels.” He paused for a moment before shrugging. “It also makes things look a bit better. Less like living in a box.”

“Even if I’m the only one who can see it?” Clark asked.

“I don’t think that really matters,” Victor told him, his footsteps clicking on Themyscira-sourced stones. “Barry said that he could feel living in a box even if he couldn’t see the box. And, besides… You can see it. That makes it important.”

Clark wanted to protest, because the thought of Victor and Barbara and even Diana making all that effort just for his sake didn’t sit well by him. But he kept his mouth closed, because, well, they had already done it. And it was better to be grateful than to protest. He had learned that, at least.

Bruce reached the double doors – dark wood that had been varnished but not carved – first. He placed his palm on the flat panel at the side while turning his head to allow the camera built into the frame to scan his retina. The same biometric scanners that were used at the Cave; an upgraded and improved version of what was sold by WayneTech.

Maybe it wasn’t necessary, given that the shielding already protected the entire lot. But, given what Clark knew about Bruce’s paranoia, he had expected nothing less.

The inside of the headquarters was familiar enough to him by now: pale silver-grey walls, with the top corners slightly darker in colour, like the ocean in the middle of a thunderstorm. They walked past the control room, the rows of black-framed screens blinking in greeting. The sound had been muted, though, so it was easy to ignore them. They could return to the world later.

With the exception of chairs stacked in a corner, the meeting room was completely empty. Clark stepped to the side as Arthur and Diana brushed past him, the former opening the metal legs that he was carrying down and placing them in the centre of the room. Then Diana put the two semicircles of wood on top, shifting so Arthur could place the last metal piece – the length of it slightly longer than the diameter of the wood – right on top. Then, for some reason, the two of them turned around and bowed, sweeping their arms out in Clark’s direction.

Clark rolled his eyes. He put down the pots of varnish and paint before slipping a hand into his cape, finding the hidden pocket and withdrawing the nails that he had taken from the farm – industrial-strength nails that he and his mother used for repairs, but those weren’t necessary nowadays with the renovations. He placed his hand on top of the length of metal, almost driving the nails in, before he thought of something.

Craning his head back, he met Dick and Barbara’s eyes. “How about the two of you hold this in place while I fix it up?” he asked.

Dick blinked. “But this is for you guys,” he said, flapping his hands in the direction of the League. “We’re not really…”

“You’re both honorary members, at the very least,” Clark pointed out. “Without Barbara, our shielding wouldn’t exist. And, Dick, you were the one who got us the seeds for the grass outside.” Which came from Gotham. Specifically, from the grounds of what used to be Wayne Manor, near the spot that housed the Wayne mausoleum.

“That’s not—” Dick started. He scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, sure, we helped, but it wasn’t really all that much.” 

“Don’t underestimate your contributions,” Diana spoke up, a gentle smile hovering on the edge of her lips. “If Clark believes that you have both earned your right to be here, then you have.”

“But—” Barbara started, chewing on her lip. She ducked her head down for a moment before shaking it. “We can’t commit to helping out. We have other… other responsibilities.”

“All of us are that way,” Clark pointed out. Arthur even had an entire kingdom to rule over. “Besides, I’m not talking about what else you two can do for us. I’m talking about what you have already done.”

Before either Dick or Barbara could protest further, Bruce rolled his eyes. He walked over to them and shoved them forward. Dick stumbled, but it was Barbara who caught herself first, turning back to give Bruce a dirty look.

“You can stand here and continue wasting time, or you can take the advice you always try to give me,” Bruce said, voice dry. “‘Listen to other people’s judgment.’ Right?”

“Unfair,” Dick protested. “You’re not supposed to throw our words back at us, dammit.” But he moved over to the left over the table nonetheless, settling his hands down on the edge. 

Barbara sighed, muttering “I still don’t think it’s right” even as she headed to the side opposite of Dick, exchanging a glance with him before both of them pushed the semicircles towards each other. Clark flashed them both a smile even as he let himself hover in the air and then flip around so he was horizontal, pushing his cape out of the way as he focused. 

First, he drove the nails in, careful to exert his strength in the right way so he didn’t end up bending the metal instead of driving it into the wood. Then he narrowed his eyes and turned on his heat vision, sending the blast directly on metal piece, starting to melt it to the point where it could be manipulated. That took some precision, because he had to skirt around the wood so as to not burn it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Barry zip into the Speed Force, opening the windows and running in circles to create a breeze that could send the smoke out before any of them started to choke.

Once the metal was ready, Clark flattened it with a hand and then moved upwards. At the top, the focused the heat on the part that jutted out from the table’s edge, softening up the metal until he could bend it so it wrapped around the table’s edge. He felt a tug against his shoulder as Barbara moved his cape out of the way. Wood creaked softly as both Dick and Barbara pushed and pulled against the pieces, letting the melted metal seep in between the join. Then, after Clark bent the bottom, they moved out of the way.

“Think I should say something about how your powers aren’t meant for mundane things,” Arthur said. The quiet amusement in his voice softened any possible sting in his words. 

Clark took a deep breath. When he exhaled, the air was cold enough to solidify the metal without cracking it. A burst of speed allowed him to flip the whole thing over. He flattened the melted, red-hot metal with his hand as well before he blew out cold air again. 

“I’ve used them longer for these things than I have to save people,” he said, shrugging as he checked his handiwork. “Farm chores go a lot faster and are a lot easier when you have powers to help you.”

Barry darted forward right then, the can of varnish open. He swept one of the brushes so quickly over the wood that Clark could barely catch sight of his moving figure, much less his hand. Once he was done – the sound of metal clacking against the bare concrete floor as Barry set the can down – Clark took another breath and exhaled over the table to dry it.

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded. “I used to use mine to catch fish for my father and me to eat when funds were running low.”

“Does using mine to open tightly-screwed jars count?” Diana asked, head cocked to the side. “Or running to catch the train?”

Arthur snorted under his breath. “Sure, if that’s how you want to count it.”

“I’m still thinking that I can get a generator for my apartment,” Barry said, sounding contemplative. “Use the Speed Force to generate electricity so I don’t have to pay as much for utilities.” He paused, and then shrugged. “The only problem is that it might raise some suspicions when there’s clearly electricity in the apartment but the bills show none being used.”

“Well,” Clark considered, holding the now-joined top of the table in one hand while he lifted one of the legs. “Maybe keep some appliances connected to the main power line, but reroute the rest to your new generator? It’ll make things slightly less obvious.”

“Still a risk,” Barry sighed. “Though, honestly, it’s not that much of a thing. I’m not that in need of money.”

“That was actually what I was going to ask,” Bruce said as Clark welded the legs to the bottom of the table. “If you’re in need of money so much that cutting down on utilities is a necessity, I don’t think getting a new generator should be your priority.”

“I should just ask you?” Barry asked, sounding wry.

“Not going to make much of a dent,” Bruce shrugged. “But it’s up to you.”

“Thanks,” Barry said. “But no thanks.”

Once the metal had cooled, Clark turned the whole thing upright again. He nudged it hard on one side. When both wood and metal held, he nodded to himself. Then, he picked up the table and threw it at the wall. It crashed loudly against it before bouncing off to drop to its side on the floor. Nothing broke.

No, wait, Clark corrected himself. The paint on the wall was peeling off. “Oops,” he said. That he couldn’t fix. Not with the equipment he had available right now.

“Is… that how you test whether stuff works?” Barbara asked him, one eyebrow arched.

“Generally,” Clark shrugged, righting the table and carrying it back to its assigned spot. “Most of the times when I do this, I have a convenient tree that won’t break.” He rubbed his finger against the dent in the wall. Bits of plaster fell off and scattered. Clark scratched at the back of his neck. “Maybe I should’ve brought the table outside before I did that.”

“Place had been too clean anyway,” Victor spoke up. “Now it actually looks like we live here.” 

“I don’t know where you’ve lived before,” Arthur said, voice very dry. “But, generally, ‘lived in’ doesn’t mean ‘holes in the wall.’”

“It does when you’re talking about metahumans,” Bruce pointed out. He set the can of white paint on top of the table before prying it open, dipping the second brush inside. Then he paused, looking back and meeting the gazes of the rest of the team one by one. “Are you all sure that you want me to do this alone?”

“Yes,” Diana nodded.

“Stop stalling,” Arthur added, because he could never resist an opportunity to needle Bruce.

Bruce rolled his eyes. Then, with one hand on the table to steady himself, he started to write. Two words, in block letters, one on top of the other:

JUSTICE  
LEAGUE

There was a tiny star in between the ‘I’ and the ‘C’, Clark noticed; one made by Bruce carefully avoiding painting certain spots such that it showed up as varnished wood surrounded by white paint.

“Done,” Bruce said, settling his weight back on his heels. He placed the lid back on the can of paint and placed the brush on top of it. “The Justice League is now officially in existence.”

“Ten months after we defeated Steppenwolf, three after we brought down a Russian mob group and showed the world we’re serious, and two weeks after we met with the United Nations,” Victors said. He shook his head. “Officially. Right.”

“Things generally are in operations way before an opening ceremony,” Bruce pointed out. “It’s just the usual way of things.”

“Doesn’t mean that it makes sense,” Victor said, voice equally matter-of-fact.

“Uh,” Barry piped up, raising a hand. When everyone’s eyes turned towards him, he scratched the back of his neck. “Now that everything is pretty much set up, I’d like to ask Clark and Bruce for a favour.”

Clark blinked. He pointed at Bruce, and then himself. “Just the two of us?”

“And everyone else,” Barry flapped a hand at them. “But mostly the two of you.”

Bruce placed the can of paint in the corner of the room. “What is it?” he asked, sounding distracted as he looked at the stacks of chairs.

“Please don’t have sex on this table,” Barry said. “Or anywhere in this room.” He paused. “I’d really like it if you guys don’t have sex in the entirety of the headquarters, but I think that might be a bit too much to ask? I mean, you two have your own assigned quarters over here, and it’s not fair if I try to ask for you guys to not do something in a place that’s supposed to be yours, you know what I mean? But, like, in the communal spaces—”

“Look at what you’ve done,” Arthur interrupted, drawling out the words with his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve given them ideas.”

Barry blinked. “Oh.” He looked at Clark. “Uh. Forget what I just said, then.”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. On the other side of the room, Dick had somehow shoved most of his knuckles into his own mouth, but that was doing a very poor job of stifling his laughter. Barbara had her phone out and Clark was pretty sure that she was recording the entire thing and had been doing so since Barry had put up his hand.

Meanwhile, Bruce had his hand over his face and was slowly dragging it down. Clark suspected that he wasn’t going to get much help there.

“I feel like I’ve just been traumatised,” Victor said. “Again.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index fingers.

“Really?” Dick blinked. “I thought that Twitter would’ve done that already.”

“There are ship wars, by the way,” Barbara added helpfully, tapping on her phone’s screen and lowering it. “No one seems to be able to decide whether they’d like to see Bruce being wrecked by Clark, Diana, or Arthur more.” She paused, head cocked to the side. “Or all three.”

“You know,” Bruce said, soft and very dry. “I am still right here.”

“Look, I’m flattered that they’re thinking of me,” Arthur said, ignoring Bruce entirely. “But I’m pretty sure that I’m straight.” His eyes narrowed for a moment, considering. “Might change my mind after a hundred years or so, but I’m straight right now.”

“Is even possible?” Barry asked, eyes wide and blinking. “Uh, I mean. Can you really live that long? And just… change sexuality?”

“Don’t know,” Arthur tossed back at him. “But one thing I do know is that things gets boring after a while, and the expected lifespan of an Atlantean is a series of a really, really long whiles.” He dropped his head back, lips curving up into a sharp, teeth-baring smirk as he met Bruce’s eyes. “So, you’ll just have to wait for me then.” 

“I’ll be old and grey by that time,” Bruce shot back, one eyebrow raised. “And that’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not, I’d be a rotting—”

Clark’s hand was over Bruce’s mouth even before he realised that he was on the other side of the room. “Nope,” he said. “You’re not allowed to say that.”

Slowly, Bruce’s gaze shifted towards him. Clark knew that he had most likely stepped on a landmine – Dick’s rapid mouthing of “no, no, no” in his direction made that pretty obvious – but, at that moment, he really didn’t care.

“Don’t say that,” he repeated. “Just don’t.”

Bruce’s hand wrapped around his wrist, nails digging into those thin bones that should be soft but were instead invulnerable. When Clark refused to move his hand, Bruce’s eyes narrowed even further, the grey darkening as seconds passed.

“Uh,” Dick said suddenly. “I think we should go.”

Metallic clicks on the concrete floor. Diana’s footsteps, Clark recognised, but he didn’t turn around, holding on to Bruce’s stare, taking in the way the lines at the side of his eyes deepened with every breath. 

“We might tease each other,” Diana said, voice no louder than a murmur but resonating through the room nonetheless. “We might learn to love and desire each other.” Her hand rested on top of Bruce’s shoulder, golden skin stark against the black wool. “But you must both remember that we are at the service of the world, and that takes precedent.”

The world can burn, Clark wanted to say. None of it will matter if Bruce is dead. But he had never made a habit of lying, and he wouldn’t start now.

“We must remember Pyrrhus,” Diana continued, her eyes fixed on Bruce. But her other hand was curling around Clark’s bicep, the warmth of her skin seeping through the perpetually-cool Kryptonian cloth. “Terrible sacrifices made for the sake of a victory turns it from an occasion of celebration to one of grief and mourning.”

Guided by Diana’s hand, Clark lowered his own.

“I don’t actually have a habit of seeking death,” Bruce said. He let go of Clark’s hand.

“As someone who has fought with you, that’s complete bullshit,” Victor spoke up behind them. “First off, there is that thing with the parademons when you made yourself into bait without leaving any escape routes whatsoever.”

“Uh, you kind of put yourself in front of a small army of criminals all armed with guns,” Barry added. From his tone, Clark could tell that he was tentatively raising his hand. “You know, that whole thing at Gotham’s docks? When you just stood there to be shot at? Twice?”

“Plus,” Clark added, eyes still fixed on Bruce. “You practically offered yourself up on a platter when I was first revived.” He had Bruce by the throat, then. Even now, he still could remember how Bruce’s neck had felt; the weakness and vulnerability of the tendons and trachea right there beneath his hand. One flex of his fingers, and he could have killed Bruce, just like that.

“Not a habit,” Bruce repeated, but there was something flatter and almost wry in his voice. “Besides, that wasn’t what you took umbrage with, Clark.”

“Part of it,” Clark corrected. He tilted his head to the side and tried for a smile. “But I’m not going to tell you the rest right now.” 

“Once again,” out of the corner of his eye, Clark could see Dick crossing his arms and leaning back against the nearby wall. “I’m saying that we should go.” 

“Not because we should give those two alone time, like what the kid’s thinking,” Arthur said. “But because all of us have better things to do than to stay here to watch this show.”

“Thanks for being on my side, water emoji!” Dick chirped. 

“Didn’t I just say that I disagree with you?” Arthur asked, sounding bemused now. For some reason, he didn’t seem to take offence at the nickname when it came from Dick. Or maybe he was just getting used to it.

“Semantics,” Dick was saying, a hand waving in the air. “You’re agreeing that we should go. So, you should help me hustle everyone’s ass out of here.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Everyone’s ass except for Princess Diana’s. No disrespect, Your Highness.”

Bruce’s lips were twitching. Barbara had no such restraint: she was outright laughing, one shoulder against the wall while her finger prodded at Dick’s side. Dick twitched, but he kept his eyes steady on everyone’s. Well, Clark corrected; everyone but Diana’s.

“Such formality isn’t necessary,” Diana said, and Clark wished that he could tell her that it was nearly impossible to take those particular words seriously when she had that serene smile on her lips. The one that made her resemble the statues of goddesses in museums far more than any human being. “And I do agree with you, Dick. We should leave.” 

She turned towards Clark and Bruce again, her long hair sweeping across her shoulder as she smile widened. “That does include the two of you, by the way.”

“We’re staying here,” Clark said. His eyes darted towards Bruce. “That is, if Bruce is okay with it?”

“Now you’re asking for my opinion,” Bruce muttered, deliberately lowering his voice until only Clark could hear. Or, well, Clark and Diana and Arthur, because the latter was twitching while Diana ducked her head down in a futile effort to hide the mirthful spark in her eyes. 

“Sure,” Bruce said, louder now. “I can stay.”

“Can I reiterate my request—” Barry started, but he barely got that last word out before a figure came up behind him and slapped a hand over his mouth. To Clark’s surprise, it wasn’t Victor.

“If you keep talking, we’ll stay here for even longer,” Arthur said. He secured his arm firmer around Barry’s shoulders and started to practically drag him backwards in the direction of the door. “For the sake of me actually getting to accomplish something today back in Atlantis, I’m going to make you shut up and haul ass.”

His eyes lifted and scanned over the rest. “That goes for the rest of you, too.” A corner of his lips twitched upwards as he met Diana’s gaze. “Including you.”

Behind Arthur’s hand, Barry muttered, “I feel so disrespected.” Clark had an inkling that he was the only person who had an idea what Barry said, because Arthur was clearly ignoring him and Diana was too busy laughing to herself.

Victor shook his head as he left, and Barbara followed behind him, her green eyes catching Clark’s over her shoulder. There was something in them that was bright and sharp, a warning similar to glint of teeth from beneath her lips. Clark blinked. He wasn’t sure what exactly she meant by it – he didn’t know her well enough for the unspoken words to coalesce fully in the air between them – but he had enough of the general gist to nod back at her.

Dick paused at the door. He opened his mouth for a moment before closing it again, shaking his head before he followed Barbara. 

“Remember what I said,” Diana murmured. Her hand was on the doorframe, fingers slightly curled around it. “The threads that connect this team together are still weak and cannot take breaking.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce said. He had turned his back to Clark and Diana both, shoulders stiff as he headed over to the stacked chairs and began to pull them out. “We won’t threaten the team. Too much effort has been put into it for that.”

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. He wasn’t sure how he was going to accomplish this, or even what was going to happen next between Bruce and himself, but he could at least reassure Diana that he would try to fulfil her request.

Their footsteps faded quickly the moment that they stepped out of the meeting room – the walls of the headquarters were thick, and purposefully so – but Clark still didn’t speak. He didn’t even move until the sounds of the shielding’s energy were louder than that of his teammates’ individual heartbeats.

“Want me to go?” he asked Bruce without turning around.

Bruce set one of the chairs down in its place beside the table and pushed it inwards. The heavy wood dragged and screeched over concrete. Then, Bruce folded his hands on top of the cushioned back, leaning on it with his eyes set ahead. 

“I want you to tell me why you reacted so badly to what was meant as a joke,” he said. 

Clark stared down at his own hands. He didn’t want to talk to Bruce about this. It seemed that all they ended up doing with each other had been having that kind of conversation that dug straight down into his heart to surface the dark and ugly parts that he would rather have kept hidden; that he kept having to face all that darkness within himself because Bruce’s very presence made it impossible for him to avoid it.

He turned his gaze towards the window. Outside, sunset had streaked its fingers all over darkening skies, and the edges of the red-orange smudges were nearly purple in colour. It was a beautiful sight, Clark supposed.

“Come with me,” he said, and headed out of the room. Bruce followed him – he could tell by the sound of his steady footsteps and steadier heartbeat – but Clark didn’t turn around. He simply kept walking until he passed the recreation room and the gymnasium, then up the stairs into the living quarters until he reached the room that he had been assigned. The biometrics scanners had been turned off – none of them had moved their things in yet, and even if they had, it wasn’t as if the place would be open to thieves – so he simply turned the knob and stepped inside.

Bruce stood at the doorway. That was alright; Clark hadn’t expected him to want to come in anyway.

The room was empty, furnished with a double bed with a mattress but without sheets and several shelves. Clark ignored all of it and headed instead for the wall furthest from the door. He flattened his palm against the concrete. As his eyes glowed blue, he fixed his gaze on the steel beam that laid beneath it.

“That’s the first thing I laid down in this place,” he said. 

“Is that why you asked for this room?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah,” Clark said. He didn’t turn around, instead closing his eyes and leaning forward until his forehead touched the wall. White stars burst beneath his lids; he switched off the x-ray vision.

“I can remember every thought I had and every movement I made when I did it,” he said. “And even after the plaster has cracked and fallen off, even when the steel has rusted and the concrete has corroded, I will still remember it just as clearly.”

“Clark—” Bruce started, but Clark shook his head, cutting him off.

“The first time I tried to get rid of Luthor’s monster, I brought it to the stratosphere,” he continued. His voice sounded odd to himself, he realised. Too flat, too hollow. “That was when they sent the nuclear bomb.”

“It went off,” Bruce said.

“Mm,” Clark nodded. “I saw it and I… well, I wasn’t thinking anything. It was hard to think when the bomb was going off. It didn’t… it didn’t burn. I can’t describe it. But it was as if everything was slowing down and speeding up at once. I could feel my cells ageing, breaking down.”

He stopped. Took a deep breath. Bruce didn’t say a word.

“Then I felt the sun on my skin,” Clark forced himself to continue. “I’ve read that, in a black hole, time stretched out and turned upside down. It was kind of like that. My cells didn’t come back to life – not even I could do that – but I could feel myself gaining life again. Like there was something within me that wasn’t killed by the explosion, and that part was stronger than anything else at that time. And it just took over.”

Letting out a long breath, Clark tilted his head back. He rested his gaze on Bruce’s figure without meeting his eyes. “Do you know what I was thinking, right before I died?”

“No,” Bruce said. His spine was very straight, but his hands were still loose by his sides and he still met Clark’s eyes. “I’ve thought about it. But I never managed to find the answer.”

He had thought about it. Of course. Clark turned around, leaning a shoulder against the brick-and-concrete covered beam. His gaze slid to stare out of the window again.

“I thought: Oh.” His lips twitched upwards. There was nothing funny about this, but he couldn’t help himself. “Oh. So, I could die.” He wrapped his arms around his chest. “That was what I was thinking about.”

“Did you not want to come back?” 

Clark shook his head. “I like being alive,” he said, and that was true. If he wasn’t alive, he wouldn’t have been able to help Ramona. If Bruce hadn’t brought him back, he wouldn’t have found so much about himself; wouldn’t have made friends and formed a team of superheroes. If he was still dead, then he would’ve been doomed to die entirely alone, knowing only the company of his mother and Lois. And that would have been…

Unfair. Not only to himself, but to Lois and his mother as well. What was it that Lois had said? Being your anchor is just a prettier way of saying that I’m deadweight. If he hadn’t come back, she wouldn’t have recovered herself, either.

If he wasn’t alive, he wouldn’t be here, with Bruce. He wouldn’t have this weight within him, this solidity of all the knowledge he had gained about this man wrapped tight around his heart.

Clark dragged a hand over his face for a moment. “I don’t like being thought of as a god,” he continued. “But at the same time…” He shook his head. “I don’t know how Diana does it. How she dared to do any of this.”

Slowly, he slid his eyes over to Bruce. His lips curved up even more. “Reaching out to all of us when she knows that she’ll outlive everyone.” He swallowed. “That, eventually, she will have to watch all of us die.”

I don’t know how to do it, Clark didn’t say. I don’t know how I can bear taking this chance when I know that losing you is an inevitability.

There was grey in Bruce’s temples and lines at the side of his eyes. His joints creaked very faintly whenever he walked. He wore age well, but it lingered so clearly on every inch of him.

“Is that what you have been thinking about for the past weeks?” Bruce asked.

“No,” Clark shook his head. “I try to not think about it.” He shrugged as casually as he could. “Nothing will get done if I think about this.”

Even Jesus had his Gethsemane, Bruce had told him weeks ago. But not even Jesus had had to deal with watching all those he had loved die while being left behind; He was there in Heaven instead, waiting for them. Welcoming them. 

Clark resisted the urge to run his hand down his face. He flattened it against the wall instead.

“Maybe I should ask Diana about it,” he said. “Or even Arthur, given that he could speak so easily about leaving everyone behind.” His shoulders shook just very slightly. “I should warn Victor, at least. His enhancements…”

*

So, he knew now that there were those around him from whom he could ask; he didn’t need Bruce to remind him anymore. Bruce, still at the doorway, leaned a little harder against the doorframe, arms tightening around his own chest.

He should stay angry, Bruce thought. Clark had done something that Bruce wouldn’t have forgiven anyone for; something that even Alfred would incur his temper if he did. But, watching Clark’s fingers now as they followed the lines of the steel beam that Bruce couldn’t see but which Clark was obviously focusing on, the rage slipped away from him easily.

Too easily. It was weakness. A possible point of exploitation.

Bruce sighed, turning his head away. Outside, the sky was almost fully dark. He pushed those thoughts away to deal with another time. Right now, he had to focus on Clark.

“I don’t know anything about immortality, Clark, so I can’t help you there,” he said. Distantly, he recognised that those were words he wouldn’t have said just a few months ago. “But I do know a lot about mortality.”

Slowly, he slid his eyes back to Clark, meeting that glowing blue gaze with the steady one of his own. “Weakness,” the ever-clinging dust of painkillers on his tongue, “the unpredictability of the future,” fear thrumming in his throat, right beneath the grip of Clark’s hand as he had lifted Bruce off of his feet, “and being left behind.” Jason’s grave.

Clark blinked. The glow faded along with his smile. He cocked his head to the side.

Bruce crossed his arms. “When I first put on the uniform, I didn’t expect that I would still be wearing it twenty years later.” Not only because he hadn’t realised that Gotham would be so difficult to heal, but also because he didn’t think that he would still be alive. That he would outlive so many.

How many good guys are left? How many stayed that way? Too few. Too many had died. Too many had lost hope and had become broken shells of themselves. Too many names stored in his mind, overspilling his hands if he ever allowed himself to speak them aloud.

His lips curled upwards, as mirthless a smile as Clark’s. “But here I am.”

“Here you are,” Clark echoed. “But aren’t all those things what you hate?” Aren’t those the reasons why you were so shattered inside that you couldn’t find the strength to keep going, and thought the only useful thing you could do was to break your own rules and tear yourself apart? Clark didn’t say the words, but Bruce could feel them nonetheless, silent and heavy in the air between them.

“Yeah,” Bruce admitted. “But that doesn’t make what I said to be untrue.” No matter how much he wished that it were.

Pushing away from the wall, Clark headed for him, one hand outstretched. He left it there hovering in the air until Bruce sighed, peeling a hand away from where it was tucked into his elbow to rest his fingers on top of Clark’s. Clark’s thumb – too smooth and too hot to be human – stroked over his knuckles, skimming light over the calluses and bruises and scabs.

“Are you going to tell me that we must not think too far into the future, and instead focus on the present? On making new memories?”

Unbidden, a snort escaped Bruce. “Something like that is too cliché even for me,” he said dryly. Then, telegraphing every motion, the fingertips of his other hand brushed the air over Clark’s cheek. 

“But, Clark, you have a choice.” Unlike Bruce himself. He never had a choice; not with Jason, not with any of those he had learned to care for and lost during these past twenty years. Yet even if he had… Even if he had, he supposed that he would have still ended up here, standing in front of Clark. Gotham would be brighter, and his Cave might be fuller, but… He would have still ended up here. 

Maybe knowing that was a form of choice, too.

“It has been weeks, Clark,” he continued. “And you know that it doesn’t matter whether you’re immortal or mortal.” Because you will still outlive me.

“Yeah,” Clark said, tilting his head and letting Bruce ghost his fingers over his skin. “I know.”

Nearly a year since Steppenwolf, and Clark at least knew now when he was hiding something from himself. Even if he refused to shape those shadows into words unless Bruce pushed him.

“Listen to Diana’s advice, then,” Bruce said. “Make the choice that will allow you to save the world even after I’m gone.”

Raising Bruce’s hand, Clark pressed the knuckles over his own closed eyes. “That’s not entirely fair,” he pointed out. 

“No,” Bruce agreed. “It’s not.” The League refused to be tools, and Clark was not a god. Yet despite their faults and mistakes, their wounds and weaknesses, neither of them was entirely human either. They couldn’t be; not with the choices they had made. 

Bruce splayed his hand over Clark’s chest, over his beating heart. Over the shield of that House of El; the symbol of hope, with its winding river. 

“When Luthor took my mother, I wanted to kill him,” Clark confessed quietly. “I almost did. I almost gave in.” He opened his eyes and met Bruce’s gaze through heavy lashes. “Aren’t you afraid that I would do worse once I lose you?”

“You won’t,” Bruce said. He gave Clark a lopsided smile and used his little finger to flip lightly at the small curl that rested between those strong, dark brows. “Now that you know the danger, you won’t.”

Clark blinked at him for a moment before he shook his head. “That much faith in me, huh?”

“It’s justified,” Bruce said. He didn’t point out just how far Clark had come within the last few months; how much he had had to face about himself and had had to struggle to get past them. He didn’t need to; Clark already knew. Bruce could see it in the shadows that tugged at the corners of his eyes.

Huffing out a short breath, Clark leaned forward. His forehead touched Bruce’s for a long moment, the warmth of him filling the air around them and drawing the oxygen right out of Bruce’s lungs. “Bruce,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“May I kiss you?”

Despite himself, Bruce chuckled. He slipped a hand up, skimming over smooth alien cloth before he wrapped his fingers around the nape of Clark’s neck. “You brought me here, to your room,” he said. “You have been touching me like this for months, and I haven’t stopped you. I went to my knees for you in an alley.” His lips twitched. “And you’re still asking?”

“I’m polite,” Clark protested.

Bruce would’ve laughed more, but Clark was already tilting his head. 

Weeks. Nearly two months since they had spoken; since Clark had asked for time. Bruce hadn’t been waiting exactly – abstaining from sleeping around didn’t count, since he had been doing that since Clark had died – but it was still a shock like an electric socket jabbed right into his nerves as Clark’s lips pressed against Bruce’s own. His skin was like cool silk, because he didn’t even have the decency to be affected by the winter’s dryness.

Then Clark cupped his cheek, his nail sliding light over the curve, a spark of sensation that dragged Bruce’s mind back to what was happening. Bruce gasped, head spinning slightly because Clark had stolen all of the air from his lungs with one inhale, and his hand had moved down to Bruce’s shoulder, tracing the curve of the collarbone beneath the three layers of suit and waistcoat and shirt.

“Clark,” Bruce tried to say— but Clark’s fingers were curling, tugging on the cloth and pulling it to the side. The collar drew light over Bruce’s neck, the weight of the tie’s knot skimming light over the base of his throat. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, his toes curling inside his shoes because— because—

One of Clark’s arm wrapped around Bruce’s waist. Bruce tried to breathe, tried to gasp, but his vision whited out suddenly as Clark lifted him. Bruce’s feet left the ground and he kicked out instinctively, trying to find purchase on something— and found it, slippery Kryptonian cloth sliding against his silicon soles as Clark steadied him with his feet beneath Bruce’s own. Urging Bruce to rest his weight entirely on him.

Then Bruce could breathe again. He inhaled sharply, dragging chilly air past his half-numb lips. Clark’s fingers shifted from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, nails scraping light over the small hairs there, and Bruce knew the strength of those fingers, knew that Clark could rip him apart in but a single second and he—

His head dropped forward, burying his face in Clark’s shoulder.

“Your heart,” Clark breathed, the reverent words ghosting light over Bruce’s temple. “I’ve never heard it beat so fast.”

There’s a reason why I went on my knees, Bruce almost said. And those have everything to do with what you inspire in me.

“Bruce,” Clark murmured. “I’m not a god.”

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded. Hadn’t they had entire conversations about exactly that topic?

Clark’s thumb traced over Bruce’s hairline, brushing away a few strands. “I’m not,” he insisted again.

“I know,” Bruce repeated. With some effort, he lifted his head. Just enough to look at Clark through his lashes. “No god would be this goddamned annoying.” 

He flicked him on the nose for good measure. Lightly, for the sake of his own fingers rather than for Clark.

Clark blinked at him for a moment. His lips pressed into a tight line for a moment before a loud snorting noise escaped him, and he ducked his head down.

“Pretty sure that gods don’t make sounds like that, either,” Bruce pointed out, his own lips twitching. 

Shrugging, Clark pulled back. Bruce’s feet touched the floor again. Before Clark could open his mouth, however, Bruce slapped his hand over it. Their positions were now mirrored from when Bruce had first mentioned the possibility of his death, and he allowed himself to feel some slight satisfaction from that.

“You already know why,” he said. “You don’t need me to say it.” After all, hadn’t Clark said it himself? 

Without Peter, the Church would not have existed. Without Moses, the Jews would have never left Egypt. Neither Jesus nor God could have accomplished their goals alone. They had to delegate.

“Oh,” Clark said, eyes widening slightly. “So, you like it when I call you out on your bullshit?” Something must have shown on Bruce’s face, because Clark made that snorting noise again. “Okay, okay, so like is the wrong word to use. Got it.”

There was no reply to make to that. Or, well, Bruce couldn’t think of one, because Clark was leaning forward again. This time, both of his hands came up to encircle Bruce’s neck, thumbs stroking down the fragile column of his trachea the very moment their foreheads touched. 

“I still think it’s a good idea to do this here,” Clark murmured. His eyes flicked slightly to the side, in the direction of the hidden steel beam. That proof of the first decision Clark made that led to him finally unravelling the threads that had wound around him so tightly that they had sunk through even his invulnerable skin.

“But,” Clark continued. “We might be lacking in equipment.”

The bed without sheets. The entirely empty room.

Bruce let the smirk escape him. “My room is right beside yours,” he said. No symbolic reason for that; only a matter of preference. “It looks exactly the same, except… you’ll find what we need in the nightstand drawers.” He paused, and then added: “Open both.”

“Hah,” Clark said. Then he was gone, leaving only a gust of whipping air behind. Bruce didn’t even have time to cross his arms before he was back, arms laden with folded white sheets with two boxes laid on top.

“I’m not even sure if I should call you a boy scout at this point,” Clark said, voice a mixture of incredulity and mirth as he stared down at the load in his hands. “Did you expect this to happen?”

“Not an expectation,” Bruce said. He picked up the boxes and set them on top of Clark’s nightstand. “More of a hope.”

“That sounds like semantics to me,” Clark said. Then, before Bruce could even finish formulating the offer to put the sheets on, Clark was a red-and-blue whirlwind again.

Bruce blinked at the now-made bed. “Is this impatience, or…” he trailed off.

“Expedience,” Clark corrected. “It would’ve taken a lot longer if you’ve done it.” He gave Bruce a sideways grin. “Especially since I’m not even sure if you know how to do it right.”

“I’m insulted,” Bruce stated, voice dry. “I know how to make my own bed.”

Then, before Clark could argue – because Bruce knew he would, he could already see the words formulating in the sudden spark in Clark’s eyes – he reached his hand up to Clark’s jaw, then and then further back. He found the tiny wire that connected the communicator’s driver to the piece inside Clark’s ear, and then tugged the bud out along with the wire.

“We better not traumatise them again,” he said, a little wry as he slipped the equipment inside his own pocket.

Before he could reach for his own earpiece, however, Clark’s hand stopped him. Clark’s thumb, hot and smooth, ran over the inside of his wrist – just one searing line up to the pulse – before lifting to his ear. His hearing popped softly as Clark pulled that earbud out as well, and Clark stepped in close so he could deposit the thing into the same pocket as its twin.

Clark’s position, Bruce noticed, was perfect right now. So, Bruce closed his still-tingling fingers around the collar of Clark’s uniform. Then, stepping backwards, he let his knees hit the side of the bed, sitting down hard and dragging Clark along with him.

The light in Clark’s eyes shifted, darkening, before he raised one leg and sank his knee onto the now-covered mattress. Bruce closed his eyes as Clark’s lips brushed against his own again, and his breath tripped in his throat as Clark pushed him down on the bed, as Clark lifted him with both hands and bodily manoeuvred him until he was lying down length-wise on the bed and Clark straddling him.

“Clark,” Bruce tried to say, but any other words were immediately stoppered with Clark’s finger over his mouth.

“Shhh,” Clark shushed him. There was a peculiar smile lifting the corners of his mouth, now, as his other hand skimmed over Bruce’s chest. The heat of his skin seemed to burn through the cloth, and Bruce bit down hard on his own lip as he felt Clark run his fingers over his suit jacket, hooking under the buttons and exerting just enough pressure to snap the threads. Plastic bounced off the bed and landed, skittering, on the concrete floor.

After a few moments, the buttons of his vest and shirt joined them.

“If it was a hope, then you would’ve brought extra clothes,” Clark said, his touch now skimming over the skin of Bruce’s chest. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. He hadn’t predicted this, exactly, more of— words escaped him like water through numbed fingers as Clark scraped his nails over the lines of his ribs. Bruce’s own hands scrambled at the sheets for a moment before he reached up, tangling in Clark’s cape. “What are you—”

“Here,” Clark interrupted him. His hand was on Bruce’s right shoulder now, splayed right over a spectacular series of scars: claw marks that started from the back of his shoulder to curve to the front, shallower at the top of his lung. The remnants of one of the fights he had had with Killer Croc, when the thing’s claws had dug into his armour deep enough to rip out the plates with a single pull. 

“The Gotham Bat.”

Bruce’s breath hitched, but Clark’s thumb was back on his lips, silencing him. He clicked his teeth together again.

Slowly, Clark’s hand moved. Down, down, past Bruce’s throat, past his ribs, until it stopped right above an ugly, puckered scar: a bullet he had taken over a decade ago from Sal Maroni’s gun. 

“Matches Malone.”

Swallowing, Bruce nodded. He allowed himself to be shifted upwards, turning his head and burying his face into Clark’s neck as Clark reached back, both hands pushing away Bruce’s clothes and then skimming over his back. They brushed over the scars from the burns he had received five years ago, when Thomas Eliot’s grudge had set fire to the Manor and burnt the building to the ground with him still inside. 

“Bruce Wayne,” Clark whispered.

“You,” Bruce started, but his throat was closing too quickly for him to continue. He took a shuddering inhale, squeezing his eyes shut before he tried again. “You have been doing your research.”

“Mm,” Clark nodded, his hair brushing light over Bruce’s cheek. “Investigative journalist, remember?”

Clark claimed Clark Kent’s occupation so easily, even though he was still in Superman’s uniform. At the back of his lids, Bruce could see Clark on the rooftop of the United Nations headquarters: hovering then not to put on a show for the sake of the representatives, but simply because his cape was getting in the way. Clark with all of the pieces of himself fitting against each other, the edges melding to invisibility instead of jarring.

Bruce opened his eyes. Clark was looking at him, his lips quirked upwards into a lopsided smile. “Well, Dick and Barbara helped,” he admitted. “Or, at least. I think it was them; I just received a bunch of newspaper articles one day.”

Despite himself, Bruce’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Barbara is probably the one who did that,” he said. “But the idea was most likely Dick’s.” He reached out, cupping Clark’s cheek and running his thumb over the curve. “He likes you.”

“That’s good,” Clark said. “But they didn’t teach me how to recognise this.” Sweeping his hands over Bruce’s skin, Clark splayed both hands over his chest, palms resting over his beating heart. “Here.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing over Bruce’s temple. 

“Bruce’s scars. Your scars.”

All of his names on Clark’s lips. His scars, each claimed by a name, but all belonging to the same body. The deepest ones, collected under all the many names, etched on the same heart. All of the contradictions of himself fitting within Clark’s mind without Bruce having to tell, without him having to explain.

“You might get tired from this,” Bruce said, because he couldn’t help sabotaging himself. “Of having to look, having to find, without having been told.”

“I figured,” Clark said. He ran his parted lips over Bruce’s hairline, his in-drawn breath warm upon his skin. “We’ll probably still end up fighting and yelling at each other at some point.”

“There are people who would be easier,” Bruce said.

“Sure,” Clark admitted easily. “But…” He pulled back, his blue eyes very dark as he brushed his thumb over the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “None of those people are you.” He gave Bruce a lopsided smile. “None of those stand beside me and show me that there are other ways to be.”

Huffing out a breath, Bruce shook his head. “You give me too much credit,” he said. Still, he couldn’t help but reach out, fingers lightly carding through Clark’s hair, mussing the strands from Superman’s usual neat style into something far messier and more fitting for Clark. 

“Giving you too much credit will be telling you that you saved me,” Clark corrected him. Then, before Bruce could protest – or even think up words to do so – Clark’s hands moved to his shoulders. Clark shoved the jacket, vest, and shirt off of him before pushing him down. The mattress squeaked beneath his weight as Bruce’s back slammed against it, and he blinked up to Clark.

“I’ve been thinking,” Clark murmured. His fingers walked lightly over Bruce’s ribs. “About this. About what I want to do to you.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want me to tell you?” Clark asked. “Or should I just do it?”

From anyone else, it would be a question born out of politeness. Even from Clark, Bruce would have taken it as such. But Clark showed him that he did know him; that he had made the effort to tug away Bruce’s masks with gentle fingers, to unravel slowly the tangled webs that made up his being, and he recognised all of the threads within them. 

Leaning up, Bruce pressed their mouths together. Clark’s eyes slid closed as he fell into the kiss, lips parting. His fingers on Bruce’s ribs curled, the tips digging into the spaces in between the bones just as his tongue darted past Bruce’s teeth into his mouth.

Maybe it was the strength that Bruce knew was thrumming under Clark’s skin. Maybe it was the flash of the deep, jewel-like blue of Superman’s uniform that had engraved itself at the back of his eyelids. Maybe it was none of that at all, and only that it was Clark, and everything that Clark was and had become to him.

Bruce’s legs spread apart. He raised them, hooking his ankles over Clark’s hips, before he arched up his hips. His belt rubbed over Clark’s uniform, the metal buckle clicking softly against the scale-like texture of the alien cloth.

Eventually, Bruce pulled back, because he had to breathe even if Clark didn’t. He gave Clark a lopsided smile, feeling his own heart beating even faster when he realised that Clark wasn’t even panting, before he scraped his knuckles over the other man’s cheek. 

“It’s funny,” he said. “All of the reasons I once had to not trust you…” He traced the air above the line of Clark’s sharp-cut jaw. “Now they’re all of the reasons I have to do so.”

Clark’s smile widened. He kissed Bruce again, lips sliding against his and tongue darting in to tease and nudge at Bruce’s own. At the same time, one of his hands snapped Bruce’s belt into two, parting thick leather like it was mere paper, while the other curled around his throat.

He didn’t squeeze. But the weight there, pressing against Bruce’s windpipe, threatening to cut off his air, was enough to have white sparking at the back of Bruce’s vision. Enough that his mind threatened blankness.

“I know,” Clark murmured into his mouth, the words punctuated by the tear of wool and cotton as Clark tore his trousers and underwear into pieces. “I can hear you.”

Both of his hands were on Bruce, without holding any weight. Bruce couldn’t feel Clark’s knees against his hips. When he forced his eyes open, he could see nothing but the blue of Clark’s eyes, the speck of brown in the corner of one, but still he knew— 

Clark was hovering. Floating in the air. Using his powers for nothing except— 

*

Like thunder. Bruce’s heart was beating so fast, so hard, and his eyes were slowly glazing over. As Clark pulled away, a trail of spit joined their mouths, and Bruce leaned forward as if being tugged along by Clark’s body. When Clark tightened the hand around his throat – very briefly, barely a single second – Bruce’s head dropped backwards and his breath shuddered in the air between them.

And Clark had barely touched him.

It was doing something to Clark’s head, all of this. The ways that Bruce’s body was reacting; the ways that Bruce was allowing himself to react. He could barely see the brown of Bruce’s eyes now, his pupils had swallowed up the irises almost entirely. 

Slowly, Clark’s hand trailed a line down Bruce’s throat, from pulse down to hollow. Bruce dropped his head back further, his heels digging into the small of Clark’s back, around the edges his spine, and air that tripped out of his throat sounded very much like a groan.

Clark had never seen anything like this. When he had thought about this, he hadn’t predicted that Bruce would react like this to him. When he had been in his own apartment, surrounded by darkness, with his shirt in his mouth to muffle himself, he had imagined Bruce with his eyes bright and wild, had thought that Bruce would try to pin him down and take him instead, drawling something about age and experience.

But he should have known, really. Bruce had dropped to his knees without Clark asking for it. Besides, hadn’t Clark said it himself? Bruce carried so much upon his own shoulders that… That. He swallowed.

Leaning in, he kissed Bruce again, focusing on the scent of him – wood smoke from his cologne, mixed with the salt of clean sweat – before he pulled off the shredded remnants of Bruce’s clothes and shoved them off the bed. Then, floating further upwards, he used that now-free hand to reach for the boxes on the nightstand.

Bruce’s breath was hitching. Clark’s head whipped back immediately, trying to find the reason—his cape, the red spilling over Bruce’s thighs, alien cloth sweeping over pale, human skin. Clark turned his gaze back to Bruce’s face, keeping a close watch on his eyes, listening to the thrum of his heart and the rhythm of his breaths, as he moved in the air and dragged his cape along with him.

There. Right there. The briefest brush, and Bruce reacted.

Oh, Clark thought. Then: Hah.

Tearing apart the paper boxes with his fingers, he let them drop over the nightstand before he tossed the bottle of lube and one of the condoms on the bed. Then, settling his knees above the mattress, Clark detached his cape from the rest of his uniform. “Bruce,” he called out. “Look at me.”

Slowly, Bruce’s eyes focused on him. Clark extended his thumb and nudged Bruce’s chin down until his gaze was on himself; until he could see Clark wrapping his own hand around the cape. Until he could see the red cloth slowly, very slowly, engulf his half-hard cock.

Bruce jerked, his entire body convulsing as his mouth parted. The haze in his eyes deepened as they grew even more unfocused, but his hips were rising up as he tried to fuck into Clark’s covered fist. Watching him, Clark considered his next move, and remembered the way Bruce’s heartbeat had spiked when Clark had….

Sliding the hand on Bruce’s throat down, he splayed it over his chest, right over his heart. Then he sank his fingertips in, digging past muscle into bone, even as he twisted his hand hard on the head of Bruce’s cock, alien cloth sliding smooth over the sensitive skin.

Hands gripping the sheets, Bruce made an incoherent noise straight from the base of his throat. Like a rattling breath, like a strangled scream, like both mixed together, and Clark leaned forward and kissed him hard again, breathing it in and storing it deep within himself. 

“Clark,” Bruce breathed out. “Clark, Clark—”

“Can you feel it, Bruce?” Clark heard his own voice interrupt Bruce. “You’re getting wet, right here.” He twisted his wrist again, this time sliding down the length of Bruce’s cock and then up. “And it’s all getting smeared over my cape.” He nipped at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “One of the last vestiges of Krypton, and now made entirely human.”

Bruce made that noise again, his hands rising up to clutch at Clark’s shoulders, his arms. Nails scraping over his biceps, over invulnerable cloth and even more invulnerable flesh, and Bruce seemed to realise it somehow, because his head turned to the side and he gasped for breath like he was drowning.

Thing was— the thing was, Clark wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, what he was saying. All of that came out of somewhere within him, the same place – he suspected – that had his hearing fixing on Bruce, using him as his anchor point, for the past months. The same place as his need to help those around him. To save them. Something he couldn’t define but had always been a part of him.

It should be terrifying – or at least annoying – just how much Bruce made him discover more about himself. It should tire him out that he kept having to get used to so many things about himself. But.

But, right now, Bruce wasn’t even speaking. His body pressed against Clark’s, his hands clinging onto him, every part of him tremulous and close to falling apart. Even if he knew this part about himself, even if he understood, this was still… It wasn’t just that it should be terrifying, was it?

Clark leaned forward. His lips brushed against Bruce’s temple – breathing in the scent of him again – before he tipped his head back up. At the same time, he tugged the cape away, letting it pool over one part of the bed. 

“Bruce,” he whispered. “Bruce. Look at me.”

He waited, counting heartbeats. It took a while before Bruce’s breathing started to even out; before those dark eyes slowly focused back on him. When they finally did, Clark dropped his hand back down to his side.

Lashes brushing over his cheeks, Bruce sighed. “Didn’t I say that I trust you?” he asked, somehow managing to sound annoyed.

That’s not saying very much, Clark wanted to tell him. But that would be false, because he knew by now that what Bruce chose to say meant far more than most because he kept so much to himself. Besides, Bruce had been showing that he trusted him already, so why—

Clark closed his eyes. Dropping his head forward, he leaned his forehead against Bruce’s. “I’m scared,” he confessed, his voice a whisper because a part of him inanely thought that that would make the words less real. “That I’m going to screw up with this.” Bruce opened his mouth, but Clark shook his head.

“I know what this is heading towards,” Clark murmured. He had read about it before, and there were many terms for it. He refused to use a single one because it would make things a little too solid even in his head, and right now everything seemed…

“It took me nearly a year before I gained your trust,” he continued, still soft because a foolish part of him feared something would break if he raised his voice. “More than that. It took me dying and then coming back, and then nearly a year before I gained your trust.” He brushed his knuckles over Bruce’s cheek. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Turning his head, Bruce rubbed his cheek over Clark’s hand. But his eyes remained steady on him as he said, “Does it help if I tell you that I trust that you won’t?”

“No,” Clark shook his head. His throat was closing up; he swallowed hard. “It makes it worse, I think.”

It’s the weight, he realised. All of Bruce’s trust resting on his shoulders; everything between them, still fragile as a spiderweb’s threads, tangled within his clumsy, too-strong hands. It wasn’t… It really wasn’t very different from trying to save the world by himself. 

Funny thing: Barbara mentioned Kryptonians, and Clark didn’t think about Zod. But now he was.

“Even if the world trusts you, it will not help you to trust yourself,” Bruce murmured. His hand was very warm on the nape of Clark’s neck.

Clark’s shoulders shook for just a moment. “You’re not exactly the world, you know,” he pointed out. Then he shrugged, a thumb brushing over the corner of Bruce’s mouth. Bruce’s lips were so red, so swollen, and Clark— he—

“You’re right,” he swallowed. He looked away. “Too much goes wrong when I do.” 

“If you can’t trust yourself… How about you trust me, who does trust you?” Bruce asked. The phrasing was weirdly familiar; Clark blinked. Bruce gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m paraphrasing from something Dick once said. It’s probably a meme.”

“Uh,” Clark said. Then he shoved the thoughts of the phrase’s origins from his head, because— “I think,” he said slowly. “It’s easier if I just trust you instead.” He reached out, tracing the line of Bruce’s jaw carefully. “To tell me if I’m doing something wrong.”

“That means I’ll have to,” Bruce started. He shrugged slightly. “I can’t get into subspace that way.”

Despite himself, Clark winced slightly at the word. Too solid, too much. He swallowed. “Just this once,” he said. He tried for a smile. “We’re not going to stop at just once, right?” His eyes darted to the side for a moment, and he shook his head. “I know it’s not fair to you, but—” 

Bruce kissed him. “Okay,” he said. When Clark blinked at him, Bruce nudged his shoulder with his palm, but said nothing else.

Clark reached back to scratch the back of his neck. His hand brushed over Bruce’s there, so he switched tracks and instead closed his fingers around those callused knuckles, bringing them close to his mouth to brush his lips over them. 

“Sorry,” he said again. “That I’m so bad at this. All part of the undersocialised thing, I think.” 

“No,” Bruce shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His brows creased for a moment before they relaxed again, and he sighed. “This is new to you, isn’t it?”

Ducking his head down, Clark sighed. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t seem like it,” Bruce said. The lightness of his voice had Clark lifting his eyes for a moment, surprised because, well. He thought that Bruce would be mad because Clark was asking him to forgo pretty much the purpose of him doing this… and for nothing else other than Clark’s own insecurities.

After a moment, he realised that Bruce was waiting for him. “Huh?” he said belatedly.

“I don’t usually drop so easily,” Bruce told him, shrugging a little and averting his eyes. “In fact, most of the time, I don’t even come close.”

“Oh,” Clark said; an utterly inadequate sound. But nothing he could think of could frame in words the heat that had burst into being in his belly and was slowly crawling upwards; nothing could describe the way his fingers suddenly ached to reach out for Bruce and wrap around that trust that he was handing to him so freely. 

He didn’t let himself. He couldn’t. Taking Bruce’s hands into his own was already a little too much, and Clark’s own fingers were trembling as he lowered his eyes, staring at those callused knuckles for a moment before he brought them to his lips. “Sorry,” he said again.

Bruce tugged his hands out of Clark’s grasp. Before Clark could inwardly flail about that, however, Bruce was already shaking his head, flicking his fingertip over the curve of Clark’s cheekbone for a moment. His lips were curved up into a wry smile.

“Because I can, and I want to,” Bruce whispered. When Clark’s shoulders sagged, Bruce hooked his fingers beneath his collar, tugging him in until their foreheads were touching again. “Because you can, and you want to.” Another brush over his cheek. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Still doesn’t seem quite fair,” Clark protested.

“You’re too used to the scales being unbalanced in your favour,” Bruce murmured to him. “How many times have you focused on controlling your strength so much that it’s impossible to sink into the sensations?” Clark squeezed his eyes shut, but Bruce was unrelenting as he continued, “How many times have you done that without saying a word?”

Clark swallowed. “Not just because I can,” he admitted hesitantly. “But because I should.”

“Alright,” Bruce said, acquiescing so easily that Clark took a moment to blink at him. Bruce smirked, poking his cheek before he said, “Then take this as what I should do as well, as the one person here who has experience to go along with his instincts.”

“Maybe I should go and get more experience first,” Clark suggested, only half serious. When Bruce cocked his eyebrow at him, Clark laughed, shifting his head lightly from side to side so that he was practically nuzzling Bruce’s cheek with his own. “Okay, okay, that’s a stupid idea.”

Humming under his breath, Bruce nudged his jaw with his nose. “So?” he asked. “What are you going to do?”

What, indeed. Clark pulled back for a moment, looking at Bruce. The brown had crept back into those dark eyes, the pupils retracting to their usual size. He wanted… he wanted them to go back to what they were like before he nearly ruined everything. Wanted to make Bruce’s eyes glaze over and hold his trust in his hands. But even as he thought it, even as he recalled the memory, the weight of it threatened to petrify him entirely.

He took a deep breath. Settled his hands on Bruce’s shoulders and lightly pushed him down onto the bed. Then, sinking his own knees into the mattress, Clark leaned forward. Slid his fingers into Bruce’s hair until he could cup the back of his neck. With his thumb’s nail scraping lightly over the length of Bruce’s throat, Clark leaned in and kissed him again.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured into Bruce’s mouth. “Tell me if I’m hurting you. If I’m doing it right.”

“Do I get to tell you,” Bruce whispered back, the insides of his thighs scraping over Clark’s still-clothed hips, “if you’re being too goddamned slow?”

Letting out a soft chuckle, Clark turned his head and scraped his teeth over Bruce’s jaw. Rough skin and rougher stubble, so unlike Bruce Wayne’s usual polished image. “I’m considering it,” he teased. Then, experimentally, he rocked forward, back muscles flexing beneath Bruce’s heels even as he rubbed their crotches together. “Maybe when it becomes too much for you to take.”

“You—” Bruce started, and then abruptly cut himself off when Clark snuck up his free hand up to his chest. Not digging in, just staying there. “Clark—” Whatever he might say was again interrupted, this time by a sharp inhale that strangled itself in his throat. Beneath Clark’s hand, his heart rate skyrocketed again.

Okay. Okay, Clark was doing right. Lidding his eyes for a moment, he let go of one notch of his control. Hissed out a breath and let the words lodge in his throat out:

“I’m starting to wonder why you react like this when I put my hand here,” he heard himself say. His fingers curved inwards even further, dragging along the lines of Bruce’s ribs and feeling the muscles jumping beneath the digits. “Why you like it so much when I do this.”

“That,” Bruce started. His teeth clicked together as he lifted his arms, swinging them to rest on Clark’s shoulders, encircling his neck. “Telling you that would spoil the mood, I think.”

Which was an answer in itself. Clark looked at him again before he nodded to himself. Then, he hovered in mid-air slightly before lowering himself down, the sleek alien cloth of his uniform pressing light against the skin of Bruce’s very human hips, even as he ducked his head down. Using one hand, he gripped onto both of Bruce’s wrists, pinning them above his head. With his other hand, he searched for his cape.

And slid the cloth slowly over Bruce’s skin, letting it touch every single inch from thigh up to his jaw.

“Now you’re making me think of going back to the ship,” Clark said, words and actions both born from a place that he still couldn’t describe but could now draw the borders of, though it was brief. “Repair it somehow so I can check if it has more Kryptonian cloth in storage.” Holding onto a corner of the red silk-like material, he used it to trail the lines up to Bruce’s wrist. “If I have enough, I’ll use some to tie you up, like this.”

Circling Bruce’s wrists with the cloth, he leaned forward. Felt Bruce’s rapid pants against his own throat as he closed his teeth around the cloth, pulling it tight and knotting it tightly enough that Bruce couldn’t escape unless he really tried. “The other pieces… I’ll use it to wrap around your cock. Make you come all over it. Filthy it completely.”

That haze. It was edging at the corners of Bruce’s eyes again. “If you keep talking like that,” Bruce said, blinking rapidly as his breathing grew deeper and more even, “I’m not going to be able to—” 

“Mm,” Clark acknowledged. A part of him was cataloguing every single thing he was doing that had Bruce reacting; was realising that they were all parts of his inhuman strength, his indisputable inhumanity. Bruce shuddered for him, clutched at nothingness because of him, whenever Clark showed him all of the signs of his alien nature.

Yet he was still the same man who had insisted that Clark was human, even before Clark had allowed himself to believe in the same thing.

Contradiction. It should be a contradiction. But it fitted somehow, in ways that Clark couldn’t identify. But the sight of Bruce right now, eyes clear and body helplessly arching towards him, still dug deep into his ribs and wrapped vines around his heart that led straight to this man. None of it should make sense. None of it really did in ways he could articulate. 

Yet, now that he had seen this, he could imagine Bruce no other way. 

Blindly, he groped around the bed, finding the lube after a few moments. He snapped the plastic seal apart and let it fall to the floor before up-ending the bottle into his palm. “Maybe that’s exactly what I’m going for.”

Rubbing the thick, cold liquid between his fingertips, he nudged Bruce’s hips with his own. When Bruce raised them, Clark lifted himself completely off his body, floating above so he could reach in between Bruce’s thighs without letting go of his wrists. “A kind of challenge for you, perhaps.”

“I thought you want me to,” Bruce started, and he interrupted himself as he threw his head back, gasping sharp and loud as Clark slipped a finger inside him. “Clark, for fuck’s sake, it’s not the first time that I’m—”

“Shut up,” Clark said. He tried to keep his tone light and teasing, but Bruce was jerking anyway, eyes going wide as he stared at Clark. “You tell me when it’s too much. When I’m doing something wrong.” Dipping his head down, he ran his teeth over Bruce’s jaw. “Not when I’m doing something that you want but goes against your usual habits. Against what you’re used to.”

In the back of his mind, Clark thought, Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe he should listen to Bruce, because hadn’t he insisted that the other man talk to him, tell him? But it didn’t seem right for him to listen now. Not when his refusal had Bruce biting his lip so hard that the flesh had gone white beneath his teeth; not when his command had Bruce’s heels digging into his back and his nails sinking into the flesh of his palm.

I trust you, Bruce had told him. Clark closed his eyes, leaning forward until he could take Bruce’s mouth. Flexing his fingers around Bruce’s wrists, he listened for the minute protests from the bones even as he drew that finger inside Bruce out and thrust back in.

“Tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me.”

“Clark,” Bruce gritted out. His mouth was lax beneath Clark’s even as he clenched his hands so tightly that Clark could feel the rapid rushing of his blood in his arteries and veins. “Clark. Keep going, keep—” 

Pulling that finger out, Clark drove two inside, curving them immediately. Bruce made a noise, incoherent, as he spread his legs even wider, heels falling down to the mattress. “Clark,” he gasped out. “Clark, I can’t— if you keep doing that, I can’t—” 

Three fingers, cockscrewing them as Clark thrust in until his knuckles pressed tight against the stretched hole. Bruce jerked his head away, gasping for breath, and fuck, his eyes were so bright, so bright, no trace of any form of haze but Clark could hear the effort he was exerting, could feel the minute tremors of Bruce’s muscles beneath his skin as he fought to not sink into the fog that Clark could see hovering at the corners of his wet, swollen mouth.

“Tell me, Bruce,” Clark commanded, fingers slowing down even as his thumb rubbed lightly over the rim of Bruce’s hole. “Tell me why. Why I can make you feel like this when no one else can.”

“Don’t—” 

He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but Clark’s hand was moving before he could stop it, wrenching away from Bruce’s wrist to grab his chin, fingertips digging nearly into the bone as he jerked Bruce’s head up. “Tell me,” he snarled.

“Because it’s you,” Bruce gasped out. “Everything you are. Everything you once thought you had to be, then everything you let yourself be.” He tried to turn his head away, to bury it into his own bicep, but Clark kept his fingers where they were and refused to let him turn. “Because you can destroy me but I know that you won’t ever—” 

First: I don’t actually have a habit of seeking death. Then: I trust you. Pieces snapped together in Clark’s mind. Oh.

Without releasing Bruce, Clark pulled his fingers out of him. As Bruce gave him a soft, shaky cry, Clark cupped his face with both hands, smearing his lube-covered fingers over Bruce’s cheek. Bruce’s eyes went wide, the dilated-again pupils nearing swallowing up the irises as Bruce’s nails clawed at the cloth, trying to get control.

“I’m not going to be your instrument of punishment,” Clark told him. Bruce could still hear him, he knew. Not just because he was making the effort right now, but because he offered to do this. “Whatever that this is, whatever this becomes, Bruce…”

One hand – the still-clean one – left Bruce’s face. Slid down his sides until he reached his hip and lifted it up. He waited until Bruce got the message and settled his weight on his heels. Then, with his eyes fixed on Bruce, he grabbed the condom packet and tore it open with his teeth and drew the latex over his cock with one hand. Leaning forward again, he let lips hover on top of Bruce’s without kissing him as he guided his cock inside him.

“This is what you deserve.”

Then, just as Bruce tried to gasp, tried to react at the intrusion, Clark pressed their lips together and sucked all of the air out of his lungs. Sealed their mouths together and pinched Bruce’s nose closed with his filthy hand, smearing more lube on Bruce’s face, before he thrust inside.

Slow. Centimetre by centimetre. Listening for the rush of Bruce’s blood, for any tears in the skin. Listening to the scrape of cloth and the squeak of springs as Bruce’s toes curled into the shoes and his heels dug into the mattress. Listened until he knew that Bruce couldn’t take it anymore, when Bruce’s heart resembled less thunder than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings in flight, Clark snapped his hips forward until they were flush against Bruce’s ass.

Then he exhaled. A steady stream of oxygen into Bruce’s lungs, feeding his starved lungs.

Beneath him, Bruce’s entire body convulsed. Bruce didn’t make a single sound as he came, his cock twitching in between their bodies without being touched, splattering sticky come on their bellies. 

Unlike Bruce, Clark didn’t need to breathe. So, only he could do this to Bruce; the only person capable of breaking him down like this; the only one he would trust to do it. Only Clark, and no one else.

Clark kept his position there, pinning Bruce down with his body, controlling his breaths with his mouth, invading him with his cock. Finally, finally, Bruce’s breathing eased out. His heart rate slowed down so much that it resembled it when he was asleep. He still didn’t make a sound, much less said a word.

Without lifting his hands from Bruce’s face, Clark raised himself. Tilted his head until his lips slid across Bruce’s cheeks, cleaning up the tasteless lube at least a little, before he fixed his gaze on Bruce’s eyes.

Glazed over. Entirely. His body so relaxed on the bed that his shoulders were meeting the mattress even as his hands remained raised over his head. Clark closed his eyes, leaning forward, letting Bruce’s even breaths ghost over his jaw as he pulled out of Bruce’s body. Closed his hand around himself and stroked just once.

As he came, he gritted his teeth together. But Bruce’s voice was ringing in his head, nonetheless: All of the reasons I once had to not trust you… Now they’re all of the reasons I have to do so. As the sparks in his mind cleared, he reached down, smearing two fingers with the mix of their come on their bellies before he raised them over Bruce’s lips.

Bruce’s eyes didn’t focus on him. He only turned his head and parted his mouth, taking Clark’s fingers within them. His teeth scraping sharp over invulnerable skin as he licked it clean. The sight of it – and Bruce’s red, red lips – sent another jolt down Clark’s spine, and he shuddered hard, nearly falling onto Bruce before he caught himself with one hand on the mattress.

Of course. Of course. Clark always had a bad habit of running away from what he wanted most. What he needed most.

Because it’s you. Everything you are. Everything you once thought you had to be, then everything you let yourself be. Because you can destroy me but I also know that you won’t ever—

He had always been taught that he had a great responsibility. That he had to save the world. But he wouldn’t save Bruce. Not because he couldn’t, but Bruce didn’t need him to. Still, with what Clark had… With what he had, he could give him this.

Carefully, he cupped Bruce’s jaw with one hand. Tilted his head up and kissed him, trembling when Bruce opened his mouth for him so easily. 

This. 

Closing his eyes, Clark breathed out a sigh. You have a choice, Bruce had said, but perhaps he had been wrong about that. Right now, Clark couldn’t imagine himself pulling apart; couldn’t imagine himself continuing to live, to be, in the world if Bruce was gone. And he couldn’t think of anything to do that could alleviate his own grief; that could help him keep going and save the world if Bruce wasn’t beside him. When Bruce wasn’t beside him.

Nothing he could do about that. Not right now. There was only—

I love you, Clark mouthed against Bruce’s throat. I love you, over his ribs, over his heart. I love you, over the pulse points of first one wrist, then the other, as he released Bruce from his bonds. 

Later, Clark would tell him that. And maybe Bruce wouldn’t say the same thing back. Wouldn’t use those exact words. But he didn’t need to, because Clark had learn him well enough over the past months for Bruce to not have to say it.

The fact that Clark was alive, right now, was proof enough that Bruce loved him.

*

When the fog retreated, there was an incessant, annoying beeping in Bruce’s ears. His back was very warm, and there was something soft and silky wrapped around his bare skin.

“Your clothes are completely ruined,” Clark murmured in his ear, his breath ghosted over his neck. His chest shifted slightly behind Bruce’s back, and the beeping silenced itself. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Bruce said. He let his eyelids fall half-shut again as he leaned back against Clark’s weight. There were arms around his waist, he realised, holding him snug against Clark’s body and also tucking in the cape draped around his body. Bruce stared blearily at it for a few moments before he decided that thinking took more effort than it was worth.

Which, he realised, was a very strange thought to have. But even that strangeness didn’t seem important. He turned his head and nuzzled Clark’s shoulder lightly instead, relishing in the weightlessness of his own body.

“Does the League have a message for us?” he slurred out.

“Mmm,” Clark said. His lips brushed over Bruce’s temple. “Your phone vibrated, too.”

“Oh,” Bruce said. A couple of seconds later, he could feel his brain kicking back into gear as he registered the words. He craned his neck back to meet Clark’s eyes. “We should—” 

Clark’s finger on his lips. “Before we deal with those things…” he said, his voice so soft. “I know that I asked for you to keep your head, and then I did that.” 

Bruce blinked. “That’s not a bad thing,” he pointed out. A part of him fuzzily noted that he should be freaking out about it; about how events had spiralled out of his control so quickly and wholly. But this was Clark, so why did that matter?

“I’m not apologising,” Clark shook his head, his mussed curls brushing Bruce’s cheek lightly. “Just stating a fact.” His nails skimmed lightly over Bruce’s hairline. “Secondly…” He leaned in.

Closing his eyes, Bruce tilted his head. His lips parted before he could tell them to, welcoming Clark’s breath, Clark’s lips, Clark’s tongue. He was, he realised, very warm; Clark’s body like a furnace away from him.

“There’s something I realised,” Clark murmured into his mouth. When Bruce made a quiet, questioning noise, Clark chuckled, one of his hands cupping the nape of Bruce’s neck and rubbing circles around it. 

“Bruce,” he breathed. “I love you.”

It should be a shock. It should freak him out. Those words were everything that Bruce had tried to avoid, had tried to keep away from, because Gotham destroyed good men and made mockeries of all those who were left, and all that followed the Bat’s shadows was death and destruction and misery.

But this was Clark. But there was Dick, and Barbara, and Alfred. Bruce couldn’t quite put into words just why those were arguments against all of his fears, only that they were. Only that this wasn’t something he was going to turn away from him.

Turning his head, he broke the kiss. Slid his cheek against Clark’s in a long nuzzle before he pulled away. Met Clark’s gaze for a long moment and seeing the corners of those bright blue eyes curve upwards when Clark acknowledged exactly what Bruce, even in this state, couldn’t voice. 

Then there was a brush of cold air before Clark returned to his spot, Bruce’s phone and their earpieces falling onto the mattress. Bruce ignored the things, leaning back against Clark instead as Clark tapped on the driver piece. Bruce couldn’t hear what was being said, but he knew Clark did.

“It’s a message from Victor,” Clark told him, a small frown creasing his brows. “Something about Lois having a lead about a government organisation named ARGUS that has been misappropriating funds.”

“Amanda Waller,” Bruce murmured. “Probably about those weapons that were being collected to take us out.”

Clark shrugged lightly, his shoulders shifting beneath Bruce’s, before he dropped the earpiece back onto the bed. Bruce stabbed at his phone’s screen, unlocking it with a scan of his fingertip. Which was clean, he realised; just like the rest of his body felt clean even when he could distinctively remember it not being so. 

Hah. So, that was what Clark meant by Bruce’s clothes being ruined, then.

Shaking his head slightly, Bruce tried to focus. He squinted at the message that popped up, tilting his head to the side. But looking sideways didn’t decode it.

“It’s from Dick,” he told Clark. “He says that I should stay in the Cave tomorrow night, because I’m going to get an important visitor who will ‘change my life.’” He locked the screen and slumped back against Clark. “Sounds ominous.”

“Need me as backup?” Clark asked. His fingers stroked the back of Bruce’s hand.

Without thinking about it, Bruce linked their fingers together and squeezed. “You’re always listening in to me,” Bruce pointed out. “Besides, I don’t think it’ll be something I can’t handle.” This was Dick’s message, after all; if the ‘visitor’ was someone dangerous, his son would’ve warned him outright instead of giving him something cryptic.

Clark’s curls brushed his cheek again as he tipped his head to the side. “Dick sounds safe,” he said. “He’s back in Bludhaven, actually. At the police station. And his heartbeat is steady. It’s not a message sent out of duress or anything.” 

“You’re convenient to have around,” Bruce drawled.

“I try,” Clark replied, a hint of a tease in his voice. He nipped lightly at Bruce’s jaw. “Anyway, since neither of the messages are entirely urgent… Let’s stay here for a while?”

Bruce turned his head. Outside, the sky was full-dark, and the only light available was those of the buildings in distant Metropolis. This was usually the time when he had to rush back to Gotham so he could ready himself for patrol.

There was, he noticed, another message. He poked at his phone again.

> Barbara Gordon: Keeping a lookout. Don’t think there’s going to be anything that the usual boys in blue can’t handle. Will inform you the moment there is.  
> Barbara Gordon: Don’t worry about the visitor. He’s not a threat; I’ve already checked.  
> Barbara Gordon: Really persistent, though. Especially for his age.

She knew. In all honesty, Bruce would be disappointed if she didn’t.

A part of him was trying to get him to pull away from Clark; told him that there was Waller to deal with, that there was a certain visitor whom he did not know but who had the Cave’s location and he should find out their identity the next night. Besides, that part added, crime in Gotham never rested.

But Barbara was handling Gotham. But Dick knew that visitor. But Clark was listening out to them both. But there was an entire League – plus Lois Lane – to deal with Waller.

Bruce closed his eyes. Turning his head, he brushed his lips against the corner of Clark’s as he nodded. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Let’s stay here.”

There was no need for him to do anything right now. He could just rest.

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is a very long note. Please feel free to skip.)
> 
> This fic was motivated by four things:
> 
> 1) I needed to relearn how to craft a plot of my own without relying overly much on either history or canon. I’m not good at things on the grand scale – the ‘saving the world’ superhero schtick – so I was trying to teach myself how to balance individual character development, complexity of issues, with the kind of big, blockbuster action that the superhero genre is well-known for. 
> 
> That’s not really a good place to start when trying to plot, and then I realised that there is practically nothing that talks about the power differences between Bruce and Clark, especially when it comes to class. There is one fic – Fabula Rasa’s [Love in the Dairy Aisle, (or, Why Batman Doesn’t do Fights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/867017)) – but that’s a one-shot. There is literally nothing in canon about organised crime except for Gotham’s Maroni, Falcone, Sionis, and Mannheim, and those people are caricatures. More Al Capone than twenty-first century mafia members.
> 
> But writing about triad bosses is boring. The depravity of their morality can only be shown so far before the fic becomes a snuff film, and I’m not going to write that. Hence, Ramona and Ileana. Hence, the entire plot regarding organised crime and how they work. Because the important part of organised crime is not the criminals themselves, but everyone else they affect. Everyone who enables them.
> 
> 2) I needed practice writing from the points-of-view of a) someone ultra-rich who isn’t entirely aware that flinging money at someone else’s problems might destroy that person’s pride, and b) someone who is so caught up on his own issues that he can no longer see the world from outside of his own perspective. Bruce and Clark are perfect for this.
> 
> 3) There’s something I read once somewhere – I’ve lost the link because this was years ago – and it stuck in my head: it was about how the comic franchise is inherently classist. Because the most popular characters tend to be filthy rich white men with expensive equipment who beat up and arrest small-time crooks. See: Batman. Filthy rich, a genius, with training that comes from his world travels that would’ve been impossible without his money… all of the resources in the world, and he’s shown punching out bank robbers.
> 
> The comics genre is inherently about power fantasies, and I don’t fault it for that. I like looking at Batman and thinking that I can be him, too. But when you have people like Bruce and then you have people like Clark and the League, the underlying message becomes that you can only stand shoulder-to-shoulder to gods only if you have the money to do it. Everyone else – like Barry, like Dick, like Jason, and even like Clark – have to wait for the lightning strike of either powers or someone with money – i.e. Bruce – to take notice. And even then, if you’re a bit too “lower class,” like Jason, you end up getting killed and having that part of your background shoved to the corner.
> 
> Plus, I’ve never really seen anything written about the nature of power in a superhero genre. There is shitton of actual canon stuff about Superman lamenting about politics or Bruce Wayne attending charity galas and helping Gotham after emergencies. But nothing that actually shows how the superhero conventions of morality and righteousness and “punching out the bad guy” just doesn’t work when you consider the modern world, its unequal societal and political structures, and how the very nature of those things have distorted what it means to influence people and events. 
> 
> Take that, shove it into a superhero, and what do you get? The entire subplot regarding Tiffany Fox, the UN, and the League controlling its image. In which they, too, have limits to their power, because of the nature of the world. (Which really goes against the whole power fantasy thing of superhero comics. But that’s kind of the point.)
> 
> In summary, I wrote this fic because I needed very specific writing practice and I wanted to write something I want to read but never got to. I’m still not sure whether I managed to succeed with that, to be honest. So, it’s up to you all to judge whether I did.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has followed it from beginning to end, and everyone who came in at the beginning, and everyone who only started when I finished posting. I adore all of you, and I will get to replies once my life actually lets me breathe again.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on tumblr @[evocating](evocating.tumblr.com). I've recently started reblogging stuff again, mostly DCEU and Ben Affleck.
> 
> Comments validate my existence. <3


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